


Somewhere in the Winter Woods

by everybreatheverymove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adult Red Riding Hood, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cunnilingus, Dark!Jon, Dark!Sansa, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Oral Sex, Red Riding Hood Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost on her way to her grandmother’s cabin in the winter woods after running away from home, beautiful young Sansa thinks she’s run into trouble when she crosses a white wolf in the forest. Instead of harming her, the animal guides her to his master, a handsome warrior named Jon who lives in solitude and clothes himself in black.</p><p>After much persuasion, he begrudgingly agrees to take her to her granny’s, so long as she never bother him again and promises to keep the local townspeople from hunting after his wolf. But snows fall heavily on the mountains as days go by and evil lurks behind frozen trees, making this no easy feat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A definite loose take on the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, this was inspired by a tumblr gifset I made and wanted to write for. (I haven't read it over for mistakes yet, so I'll be doing that tomorrow). Hope you like it!

There's a flow of red cascading down her back as she runs, her strawberry hair swaying in the cool winter wind.

Mother wanted her home by supper, ready for their routine meal of cooked rabbit and earthy potatoes.

So when the sky's blue had started darkening and the moon was already half there, she'd left her best friend alone with the twigs and flowers they'd been picking for the better part of the afternoon, and she'd rushed through their small village in a hurry, almost knocking over barrels of the local brew on her way.

She couldn't be late. Mother would be unhappy, and an unhappy mother meant supper would pass slowly, achingly so.

When she gets back to her home, her sister is stood outside, arms folded over her small chest with her short brown hair tucked behind both ears. Her thick brows raise as she grins, licking her lips before speaking.

"You almost missed the surprise."

Copying her little sister's look and brushing her red locks behind her ears, Sansa frowns. "What surprise?"

Arya just shrugs, maintaining a secretive smile on her thin lips when their mother comes barging through the main door, the rusting metal hinges creases into the old wood.

"There you are." She wraps her fist around the collar of Sansa's dusty grey cape, fingers ushering her forward with a tug. She forces Sansa into the small house, and makes sure Arya follows, before slamming the door the best she can and ushering them forward. "Hurry along."

She points a finger out towards the children's bedroom, the one the girls share with their crippled younger brother. The oldest of the siblings having married and moved out of their cramped flat and even the small rustic village, they'd been left to share it, the three of them, given their baby brother was still cuddling up with Father in his chair every night.

"Why?" Sansa spins as she talks, walking backwards past the thin hanging curtain that separates the room from their living space. Her brows knit, "Mother."

"We have guests coming."

"Guests?" She pauses, at an utter loss, "Who?"

The Starks rarely ever have visitors, mainly because the children have a tendency to misbehave and Catelyn gets embarrassed due to her matriarch skills being questioned. Father doesn't help much, either, barely ever moving and staying in his seat, furs over his lap and a half smile forever toying on his lips.

He hasn't been the same since returning from the Winter Woods two years back. He almost never sleeps, and when he does he usually wakes up in a sweat. He doesn't earn anymore. They all mostly rely on Catelyn to prove herself as the village's seamstress. Thankfully, work thrives in winter, and she hopes her eldest daughter will one day take over part of the workload.

"Just get changed. Nicely." She stresses, blowing a strand of dark red hair from her face, "Please."

The girls obey at that, turning to their bedroom and rummaging through their chests until they both pull out an outfit they deem appropriate for the meal.

"Breeches?"

"That dress?" Arya lifts a brow, pulls a face mockingly, "Again?"

Not in the mood to start a fight over her sister's masculine choice of attire, the redhead rolls her eyes and slips out of her cape and dress. Freezing in her shift and smallclothes, she makes work to quickly slip the thicker wool over her body, slipping her arms in the sleeves and tying the front strings together.

Arya extends a brush out to her, and Sansa returns a knowing smile before pushing her to sit down on a stool. Unable to braid her own hair, the dark haired girl chews into her bottom lip, twirling her thumbs around as Sansa brushes her tresses. "I bet it's the Boltons."

"Why would it be the Boltons?" She knows why it could be, but part of her hopes she's wrong and their guests for the evening aren't the village's banker, who makes shady work of business and his son, who has always spent too much time staring after her than she would like.

"You're eighteen now." Arya shrugs, as though the answer is obvious and simple and should make sense.

No, it shouldn't. Sansa doesn't want it to be obvious, doesn't want it to be simple. She'll fight the inevitable if she has to.

"Okay." She pats her sister's shoulder to usher her up before beginning to brush her own hair quite abruptly.

"What are you doing?" The shorter girl shoots her a dazed look, "You always take weeks to do your hair."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Sansa places the wooden brush back down onto the dresser before wrapping her long hair around her fingertips and braiding her locks furiously fast. She grits her teeth, feigns a smile. "Yes, well, maybe I don't want to be so presentable today."

She will fight the inevitable if she has to. An alliance between her and a bastard will not be obvious.

As they leave the bedroom and sit themselves down for supper, Sansa ignores her mother's confused glances, given she is usually the one all prim all proper but the card has fallen on Arya tonight.

"Sans-"

"Hello."

Catelyn turns at the sound of a man's voice in the doorway, familiar to everyone in the village. He steals for a living, while his son seems to be a devil in disguise, hunting wild animals for fun and following young girls around.

"Roose."

Sansa isn't sure how or when her mother became so acquainted with the banker as to be on a first name basis, but she lets it slide for now.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Supper passes by rather quickly, faster than even Sansa could have hoped for. They all eat in harmony, with only Bran retiring early due to strenuous pain in his legs. He joins Ned, their Father, on the chair, drifting to sleep against the ailing man.

But though their mealtime breezes past them, what follows after seems to last an eternity.

Mother talks with the banker out front, with the door ajar and his bastard son thankfully joining them. Arya stands by the wooden door, trying to eavesdrop. She shoots Sansa conflicting glances across the room every now and again, either a smile or an odd stare.

"What is it?" The redhead whispers, hoping the younger girl catches on.

As she goes to talk however, the door swings open fully and Catelyn walks back into the space, hand behind her back against the battered wood.

"Arya!"

"She told me to!" The brunette sells her out, nodding her head over at her older sister.

Sansa sighs, casting her gaze to the floor momentarily.

"What did you hear?"

"I didn't hear anything. Nor did she." Sansa points out, one brow raised sharply as she swallows a harsh breath. "What did they want?"

Her mother crosses the room then, stepping around Father's chair with a hand against the dry fur. She stops just in front of her eldest daughter and forces a smile.

"You'll marry Roose Bolton's son… A week from now."

As though it was obvious, simple even.

"No."

"Sansa. We need this."

"He has been after me since before I even bled, Mother! He has been watching me, day in and day out. I'm not going to give him the privilege of finally having me."

"We need the financial support, and Ramsay's father is the-"

Sansa gulps, arms folding over her heaving chest, "I don't care."

"Do you not care about us, then?" Catelyn grasps her upper arms, blue eyes daring. "This isn't a game, sweetheart. Robb did his duty."

"Robb is a man and he got to chose who he married. He had a choice and he made it. And I'm not even allowed that small privilege, am I?" She shakes her head, shrugging off her mother's condescending touch and stare, and retreating back into the bedroom.

"Don't be selfish, Sansa."

"It isn't selfishness, it's called dignity."

She is left alone then, after she falls onto her and Arya's bed and curls up into a ball despite the thickness of her dress and her overall sadness.

Sometime later, Arya joins her, a cloth in her hands and a bite to her bottom lip. She sits down beside Sansa, knowing she was still awake. She nudges her side and whispers,

"Mother made this for you."

"What is it?"

"It's a cape. A new one."

"I don't want it."

"It's your favourite colour."

Turning over onto her other side so she faces her sister, she opens one eye, "She made it for my wedding." She speaks the word with dread, as though it bruises. "I don't want it."

"She made it for the winter, you idiot. I have one, too." Arya smacks her arm quite hard and then grabs her own clothes, showing off her new deep green cape. "See?"

"It isn't for-

"No, idiot." Arya lies down, head against a feather pillow and pulling up the layers of furs she was lay on. "Winter is coming. We're gonna need to stay warm somehow."

Sansa blinks, watching as her little sister closes her eyes then, succumbing to sleep. The girl looks so much like Father, and Aunt Lyanna, and Grandma Lyarra. She is a Stark through and through, dark hair and dark straights.

The only thing Sansa inherited from the father's side was a dark soul, a habit of being moody when she wanted to be. But she is her mother's daughter, and she got the ice blue eyes of the cool spring and the fiery hair of the lucky ones.

But luck isn't on her side, it seems. Luck wouldn't let her become enthralled in this mess.

Granny always said that she was stronger than she thought, that she was capable of anything if only she convinced herself into it. But there was no convincing herself to marry a sociopath in the making and letting herself become a pawn.

Her family wasn't so poor that they needed this alliance, she knew it. Mother probably only used that card as a last resort because she knew Sansa would never agree to the union.

Granny would want her to fight it. Granny would help her, side with her, if she was here. But she has lived in the woods since Sansa was but a toddler and she'd had to settle for yearly visits.

The Winter Woods were dangerous when the snows started to fall, but the sky wasn't a shroud a white yet which meant she still had a while to go before the snow began to greet them.

Before long, Sansa finds herself in a trance, imagining the path to Granny's cabin. Trying to remember the way proves a challenge, but she recalls certain elements of the journey from her last visit, and she is almost positive she could make her way there.

She doesn't need absolute certainty to convince herself into this.

She would go to Granny's house, and bring her home to challenge Mother. If anybody could win her over, it would be Father's mother.

When she's sure Arya is asleep, Sansa slowly rises up in the bed, slipping from the fur comforters so slowly she fears she might trip and fall by accident. On her feet, she pulls the furs back up the bed so the younger girl doesn't suspect her absence.

She begins to gather her important belongings in a wicker basket, having been unable to find her worn leather's satchel. The wicker creaks almost silently and she thanks the Gods it doesn't give her away.

Once she's equipped herself with a small amount of food and two flasks of water, she drags a piece of cloth over the top of the basket to keep the items warm. Though before she leaves the room, her eyes catch sight of the red cloth falling off the edge of the room. It must have been the new cape Mother had made her, the one Arya had brought in earlier.

Red is her favourite colour, and the surprising brightness of the material stuns her. It's perfect, large and thick and protective against winter chills.

She slips she cloak around her shoulders then, letting the heavy weight incase her in its warmth. She ties the front clasps closed and knots the sturdy strings.

Casting her sister a last glance for a short while, she heads into the main room, making sure her Father and Bran are fast asleep in the chair before she steps around them and pulls the front door open with all her might but trying to remain stealthy. Mother and Rickon will be asleep in the other room, she thinks to herself.

She would only be gone for under a week, anyway, but she knows that her family would try to prevent her from even doing that.

As the heavy door slides open, miraculously with no creak, she slips through it calmly, basket held tight between her fingertips and red cloak sweeping the floor.

Once outside, she closes the door with the same patience, breathing a sigh of relief when it locks her out.

Completely dark outside, the sky is pitch black aside from the glowing moon in the corner of her eye. She thanks the Gods for the moon's presence tonight as it will help guide her through the village into the edge of the woods. Once there, she knows what she's doing.

It's a simple trek straight ahead until you reach the Praying Tree. Go around it. Take a right. Go left. Straight ahead. Keep on until the sky changes from night to day. Right. Straight. Left. And so on, and so on.

Ducking her head low, she sways down the icy pathways of the village, keeping weary of the rowdy, drunk villagers. Hoping the make it past the inn full of drunken hunters, she curses under her breath and stills when a hand curls over her shoulder.

The fingers are slim, feminine, and Sansa turns bashfully to see the reported witch hold out a flask of what she can only assume is ale in her other hand.

The deep red haired woman who dresses scantily, who goes by the name of Melisandre and has a reputation for being a mysterious keeper of secrets, smirks and places the contained down atop of Sansa's basket when she makes no move to take it.

"The night is dark, Stark girl. But the flames have spoken and what you seek may not be what you think. You'll find him, Stark girl. And he will guide you." She speaks knowingly, and Sansa questions whether or not she winks at her before spinning back around and heading back into the inn, to a loud uproar and cheer.

Shoving the bottle of ale beneath the cloth, Sansa determines forward, ignoring the red witch's riddle.

She flicks the red hood of her cloak over her long hair as she reaches the edge of the village, where icy dirt meets muddy leaves.

With a deep breath, she heads into the Winter Woods, keeping her eyes on the moon's light for a moment, for guidance.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Some time must have elapsed by the time she reaches what she assumes is the middle of the forest, for the sun is up and the birds are chirping.

It turns out that the woods were a lot easier to navigate through in the summer, and in the daytime with her older brother at her side.

Where she should be turning right, she finds a wall of trees, blocking any clear path that once may have lay there.

Realising that her lack of sleep, and hours of trudging through muck and ice, is becoming an issue, and her misdirections are getting her nowhere, she settles herself down beside an oak tree. The trunk is wide enough to lie down upon and she finds a comfortable position after a short while.

A few moments rest couldn't do her any damage. She was already lost, most likely, and if her rest proved useless in terms of remembering where it was she was supposed to go, she would head back, the way home her only guarantee of safety.

Placing her basket down by the trunk, she picks at a piece of bread before taking a swig of water and pulling the cloth from the carrier to form a pillow. Having set up her makeshift bed, she walks by another tree to relieve herself, knees aching as she creases from her long walk. Yes, a rest wouldn't hurt. It should still be bright when she wakes up, the sun shimmering and the sky white.

She pulls her smallclothes back up her legs, and wraps her dress and cloak comfortably around her frame as she lies down.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By the time she wakes up, she finds the nighttime sky is out, black and frightening. Curse the Gods.

Rising to her feet, she kicks her feet against the trunk of the tree in anger at the realisation that she will have to struggle on through the darkness, again.

Rubbing a hand over her face, she pulls the hood of her cloak back up over her red braid, pulling the tress down her shoulder. Leaning down to pick up her basket, she notices it has tipped over, with the bread gone and the ale flask on the iced ground. The water flask is nowhere to be found, and she wants to scream if it weren't for the problems that could cause her.

A young girl screaming in the middle of the night would attract wild animals and strange men.

It's then that she realises that nobody has seemingly caught up with her yet, if anybody has even been sent out at all. After all, an entire day must have passed since she fled her home in search of her grandmother.

"Alright." She rubs her gloved hands together, and breathes into them for an instant, trying to bring some warmth back to her limbs.

She forgets about the lost food and water, and instead tosses the flask of ale back into the basket as she picks it up now, messily pushing the blanket into it, too.

As she goes to step away from the tree, she notes that both paths away across from her are eerily similar. With trees lining their lengths and and dirty, leafy cobbles paving the way. But she doesn't remember having come down any of these roads on her travels.

Perhaps it's the Winter Woods playing tricks on her. The witch always said magic lurked nearby, and maybe she had given her the ale as a coping mechanism for when she'd be touched by the magic. Maybe the forest was messing with her, toying with her head.

Deciding to just take a path and work from there, Sansa steps away from the tree trunk with a slip on the ice, but she manages to balance herself on time before falling. As she regains her balance, she looks up at the sky, notes the way small white flakes begin to descend upon her.

Snow. Now. When she was alone and trekking through treacherous woods in the middle of a wintery night. What an enchantment this was.

She follows the left path, continuing straight ahead with slow steps and careful jumps over logs and the like.

Snow falls down around her, and upon her as she travels, walking through the small storm as though it charmed her, didn't frighten her in the slightest.

She is a Stark. She can be brave.

"Oh."

When she reaches the end of the long path, there's another clearing of trees up ahead. From there, it's a series of decisions and choices as to which way to go, which road to follow.

The snow thickens as night gathers, and she finds herself weakening by the weight of her cloak and her stomach having skipped out on meals.

When she thinks she's been wandering for a good amount of time, a handful of hours at least as she sees the moon start to fade slowly, she stops to pick at a bush of fruit.

Uncaring if this is a trick the supposedly magic forest could be playing on her, she plucks a fistful of strawberries from the plant and bites down into one, juice sliding down her chin as she savours the sweet flavour.

As she goes to plop another one between her teeth, she stills, sensing a presence behind her.

And then she hears it. A growl.

It's low and sounds starved.

And she's most surely going to suffer at the hands of this beast, she notes as she turns around to face the animal, spotting a large white wolf creeping out from behind a tree. Its eyes glow red and she curses under her breath as it approaches, teeth bared and tongue wet.

The fruit slips from her fingertips before she can even register what is happening, as the wolf approaches her at a fast pace with a growl.

Her icy eyes shut close as she readies herself for the sting, for the sharpness that will surely penetrate her skin any second now.

But she finds herself surprised when, instead of harming her, the wild animal licks her empty palm and nuzzles its nose against her cloak.

"What?"

She breathes, questions what is happening for a split second before she feels the wolf pull away, and her eyes flicker back open to watch it stroll away from her, back where she thinks it came from.

Unable to stop herself, she follows the creature. It has surely twice her weight, at least, and it could have taken her as a meal if it so please. But it didn't. And she doesn't understand why. Or maybe this is a predator luring its pray and she's falling through a trap, where wolves by the masses await her.

Her boots lead her down the snowy path though and she follows the wolf with shaky breaths, fingers curled tightly around the handle of her basket.

It leads her far away, even throwing a look every now and again to see if she is still following. She finds it all so puzzling, abnormal for a creature of its size and nature.

When it finally stops, and she almost stumbles into the mass of white fur, she hears it howl this time. A little late for that, no?

Sansa only manages to stroke one hand through its fur before he leaps away, down past some brushes. She follows, shoving the leaves and cobwebs from her face as she goes, spurting and coughing.

"Wait." She goes to call after the animal when she reaches the end of the narrow path, but instead refrains when she spots a small cabin up ahead.

It isn't Granny's, she thinks. It was too small, too dark, too plain. Granny liked flowers and she had a bench out front. This is haunting, buried deep within the Winter Woods with nobody nearby and a large wolf lingering around its premises.

She approaches the cabin daringly, head held high beneath her hood and basket almost shattering in her strong but weakening grip.

The wood of the place is dark, darker so than even her home, and she notices the boarded-up windows all around it. If somebody still lived here, or if anybody ever had, they obviously didn't like company. And she doubted that any current occupants would want some strange girl from the village lurking around their home.

Wanting to get a closer look at things, but feeling faint from fatigue, despite her rest, and uneasy around an odd cabin, she holds herself back when the wolf howls again, officially selling her out to any inhabitants.

As she sees the door opening, and a mass of black appearing on the front step, she goes to apologise for trespassing and make her excuses, but her body stops her and she feels her eyes drifting to a close from fatigue. No, no.

She faintly hears her basket fall with a thud, before she collapses herself, knees buckling under her tired light weight. Her cloak crinkles around her as she lays on the snowy ground, and she hears a northern man's gruff voice shout out before her ears give up their fight.

"Ghost!"

Eyes flickering, she notices that the mass of black has approached her, in the shape of a man, the wolf at his side. He strokes its fur and it growls. Then the man lowers himself to her level, knelt at her side with what she can only see as a blurred frown. She feels him slip a hand beneath her neck, pulling her head up so he can see her clearly.

Through her tired eyes, she can barely make him out. Curly hair, white skin, pink lips. But he's blurry, and a mess, and she probably won't even wake from this to see him more clearly.

This is the forest's magic playing with her.

He already has an arm through her basket by the time he picks her up, a palm wrapped around the back of her neck as the other carries her legs, holding her against him safely.

Sansa can just about make out the door to his cabin as they approach it, before she blacks out completely, arms falling loose around her finder.

"I got you."


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter and it was written while I was kind of distracted, but the story has to get going somewhere, and it wouldn't have made much sense to start the explicitness in the middle of the woods, so there are already allusions to this here. Hopefully you enjoy it. Let me know.

Waking up from what she thought could have been a permanent sleep, Sansa lets her eyes open slowly, adjusting to the light of the room, no matter how faint it was. There are a few candles lit on what appears to be some kind of dining table, and another one placed by her head, the flame on this one flickering and holding her attention for a good moment.

But the moment passes when she takes in the rest of the room, the cabin even. Aside from the terribly horrendous lighting her finder seems to be accustomed to, there is not much in terms of fillings.

The walls hold no tapestries, only maps of what she thinks are the forest, and wooden keepsakes she doesn’t care to inspect.

But there are weapons laid by the door to the place, hooks and knives, axes and even a sword. How such a person came across such a thing she doesn’t know.

“Ah, good.”

Her body stiffens at the sound of the husky voice she faintly recognises from the night before.

“You’re awake.”

“Yes.”

She replies before she can stop herself, and she immediately bites the inside of her right cheek.

Glancing up from beneath long lashes, hands at her chest clutching the red cloak still around her frame, she spots him standing in front of her, but there’s a fair amount of distance still maintained between them. He’s in the doorway, while she’s beside a bed.

His arms are by his sides, and she takes note of what could only be a washcloth hanging from his left hand.

“You look like hell.”

“Well, aren’t you charming?” She mutters with a roll of her eyes, raising a hand to her lips to feel a stinging sensation.

“You were all chapped, and… cold.” The man shrugs, dark eyes blank across the small room, lips plump.

She swallows, standing up straight with a small cry from the ache of past exhaustion.

“Chapped?”

“Your skin, lips.” He waves a hand about, “From what I could see.”

“Right.”

Thank the Gods he wasn’t a brute. Apparently. Yet?

“What’s that then?”

“For you.” He tosses her the greyed cloth and it almost drops to the dirty floor until she catches it. “I don’t know where you plan on going, but I don’t think looking like you were eaten up and spat back out by Ghost will do you any favours in your travels.”

Ghost. Right. The wolf.

The redhead picks at the cloth unsurely, crinkling the dry texture. “How do you know I planned on going anywhere?”

“It wasn’t your intention to end up here, was it?” He almost smirks, the corner of his lips holding back a curve, “Nobody sets out to find a strange man in the woods and stay with him forever, do they?”

Sansa tugs on the layers of her dress and cloak to make it hand right over her body. She licks her lips, dares to look up at him in his entirety this time.

Mother always taught her never to talk to strangers. Mother would scream if she caught Sansa her with a man, already more aged than she.

“Is that what you are then? A strange man?” She holds her breath steady, readies herself for his reply.

“I’m a man, aye. But whether or not I’m strange is up to you, I reckon.”

It’s only then that she fully takes him in.

He’s roughly her height, and a handful of years her senior. His hair is dark, curly and oily and she feels an overwhelmingly odd desire to run her hands through it. His skin seems pale, even in this dull light, yet his eyes are dark, nearing black almost. His lips catch her attention most, pink and quite feminine and plump. She’s envious.

He’s pretty, Robb would say with a chuckle if he saw him. Prettier than most girls, Sansa thinks to add.

Pretty with a man’s stare, pretty with a man’s body.

“But then… You will be leaving shortly so I find it doesn’t really matter what kind of man you may think me.”

“How do you know I-”

“I don’t know where you came from, or how you came to be here. And I don’t think I really care, if truth be told.” He frowns, pausing for a second, “You’ll be on your way soon and I’ll be left alone to my own contentment.”

“I’ll be on my way, will I?”

He seems so focused on this, on getting her out of his sights. Maybe he is dangerous. Maybe she should leave before throwing herself even deeper into trouble.

Granny’s house couldn’t be too far away, could it? Unsure of how long she travelled in total, Sansa steals a glance outside from a crack in a window, noticing the fresh morning sky, still littering the ground in snow and prolonging her travels. How fast could she get there?

The man, on his end, takes a couple of steps closer to her. He keeps a foot of distance between them as he speaks, says, “There’s some water in the bucket.” He nods towards the door, toward a rusty bucket seemingly full of fresh water from lord knows where.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sure enough, her face had somehow become a mass of icy patches of dried dirt and her lips were beyond chapped, sore and aching from the cold.

Her red cloak is placed over a rocky chair, her dress unlaced as to be able to clean up the tops of her breasts. She rinses, washes slowly and thoroughly while taking in her surroundings.

Her finder has been outside for awhile, and she has heard his groans and shouts and the slicing of wood for some time now.

He has so many weapons, and such knowledge of the woods, she gathers from the maps and books she has found stored away. Never one to pass up an opportunity at browsing through other’s belongings, Sansa had wanted a little more insight into who the mysterious man who saved her from the dreaded cold was.

He didn’t appear cruel, didn’t seem very harmful, bar for the weapons and bloody rags on his dinner table.

Ringing out the washcloth as to clear out all the gunk from her face and chest, she folds it over the side of the bucket and stands with a moan, hands on her knees.

When the door swings open, and she is midway through re-braiding her long hair, a thought suddenly wakes her from her daydream.

“Can’t you take me back home?”

“No.”

His northern voice is low, and she swears she can hear him sigh before he even replies. He moves from the door, piles of cut up wood in his arms until he throws them down into the fireplace by the bed.

Finishing her braid and not paying him much mind, when she next turns back around, he is sat at his table, the fire lit and burning bright behind him.

“That was fast.”

“I like to get things done quite fast.” He says, gloved fist on the table making a fist and retracting. “You don’t seem to. Given you’re still here.”

“Aye, I’m still here. And I will be until you agree to accompany to my grandmother’s cabin. You see, I was on my-”

“Why are you going to visit your grandmother in such a winter? I thought you villagers only ventured out on travels when the sun was out and the snow was nowhere to be seen.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “We do. Usually.” Then she pauses, chewing into her lip for a moment.

He smirks as though he takes her for a child, one who was not supposed to be travelling far without parental guidance.

Never one to be deterred, Sansa raises a brow. “The circumstances, however, have proven to be much different. I do not just need my granny’s hugs, I need her help.”

“You need her help for something, you need my help to even get to her. Seems to me you’re a little lost in this world, lamb.”

“I was lost. Until you found me.”

She recognised the words for their misconstrued depth, but carries on nonetheless.

“I was on my way, until your wild beast of an animal found me and led me here.” She ignores the low growl the animal shoots her. “So if you’re going to blame anybody for your obvious disapproval of me being here, blame him. Or yourself. You did bring me in, after all.”

“Aye. I thought myself smart for doing so. But I should have left you out there to shrivel up in the cold. Now you’re here and healed and asking me for more favours.”

His brows are knitted together and she notices his fist continue to clench, unclench, clench.

Don’t hit me. Don’t turn cruel.

“It’s one favour.” She tries.

He knows his way through the Winter Woods. He can surely take her when she needs to go. He can keep her safe.

“Please.” Her icy blue eyes widen and she tentatively walks closer, goes to lay her hand over his fist. “I’ll owe you one back.”

“I haven’t trekked out in years.”

“I have never trekked out alone.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I don’t know you, either.” She chooses to stand beside him instead, removes her hand from where it lingers above his own. Too close. “Sansa. My name is Sansa. I’m from the village, you know that. I’ve been told I’m to marry the man who has been stalking my every move since I was aged eight. My grandmother could persuade my parents otherwise, I know she can. Which is why I need to get to her. Which is why I need you to take me there.” Get your story over with. Get him on your side. Play with sympathy, if he even recognises such an emotion.

“Jon.”

“Jon.”

“Aye. Jon Snow.”

She smiles, moves her hand closer to his but keeps some space there, refrains from touching someone who is arguably better off without her presence, despite how lonely she thinks he must be sometimes.

“What will you want in return?”

She gulps, prepares her lips and mind. Oh.

When he stands, in front of her, it’s with haste and she is caught off-guard when his hand wraps around the base of her throat.

It isn’t entirely unpleasant, the way his fingers curl around her skin and her brain freezes on impact, but it sends her back against the wall, her red hair brushing against one of his many treasured, dishevelled maps. The edge of his palm digs into her collarbone, his fingers marking her skin.

“Keep your villagers away from my wolf.”

She thinks she can see the wolf in him, behind his eyes lies a bark she finds herself almost wanting to feel the bite of.

“Is that all?”

Inexperience. That would be the one word used to describe Sansa’s liaisons. Never has she had a first kiss, never has she shared a first anything.

Curiosity sometimes gets the better of her, no matter how soft-spoken she has been brought up. Curiosity for wilderness, for scratching an itch she can feel but not satisfy.

“Shouldn’t it be?”

It’s almost familiar. The way he handles her carefully yet somehow roughly, even the way he walks with the word ‘broodiness’ almost written plainly across his face.

She could believe them to be distant relatives if she had only discovered him anywhere else. Or rather, if she hadn’t stumbled across his path. No family member of hers would ever think to live out in the woods, alone with no one but a wanted beast as company.

Sansa sweeps loose strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ears before clearing her throat softly, wanting to diverge his gaze, from her throat to her mouth.

“What?”

“Are you going to let me go, or are you going to carve me up and have me for dinner instead?”

“I’m not sure about carving you up, but I could eat you for dinner. If you’d like.”

She wants to pull his half-smirk into a full smile, to see how he would look were he less melancholic. She wants to move her hands from her face to his hair, to pull and let him shove. She wants to slip free of her shift but keep her dress on, then let him pull at the strings.

It’s unadulterated, and strange to her, and she fails to understand where her cravings, her wanton desires even, come from.

Is it the woods, the legendary magic playing into her fantasies of knights and princesses in towers and turning them into improper tales of lust? Or the absence of her tight-knit family allowing her inner wolf to surge and meet his own?

“Would you like that?”

He finally smiles at that, and she grabs ahold of his wrist and removes his steady hold from around her neck. It aches, in a way that hauntingly amuses her. She keeps her fist wrapped tight around his own, clenched aggressively and her long fingers burning from the leather of his glove.

“We leave when the snow stops.”

“Thank you.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting down and dirty before I planned, but I write with no clear path set in mind for each chapter, only an endgame for the grand scheme of things. And, if this is how we get there, so be it. Keep in mind, I'm using elements from various depictions of the RRH tale so... that's in play. And when I say that's in play, I mean this is going to become explicit as hell. This is either sexy or... strange, depending on the reader, I reckon. Anyways, enjoy. And let me know what you think.

The snow isn't going to stop.

Jon points this out only a short while after he had agreed to accompany her on her journey.

"Good."

"Good?" He throws a knife down on the table then, steel edge scraping against the wooden surface. "It's unsafe to travel in a snowstorm."

With a roll of her eyes, Sansa stops her packing, rolling up a ball of cloth and tossing it into her basket. She takes a couple steps closer to the door, pulling it open ajar to get a glimpse at the persistent weather.

"I didn't mean good, I just-" She frowns, peeking up at the falling flakes of white as her fingers wrap tightly around the doorframe. "It isn't so bad. This isn't even a storm, Jon."

She hears him mutter something under his breath from behind her, closer but still far away.

Chewing into her bottom lip, she decides their conditions could be worse. She will take a heavy snowfall over a thunderstorm any day. She moves away to close the door, taking a couple of thrusts to jam it back into place with a huff.

"Are we to be on a first name basis then?"

Spinning back around, she quips, "Well, what else would I call you?" Sansa perks a brow.

"I don't know. Perhaps, 'brute' given my handling of you earlier." His face is long, and his dark eyes don't meet hers.

Unable to tell if he is joking or scolding himself, the redhead allows for a shrug of her shoulders. "Was that brutish?" She shifts closer, fist wrapping around the top of the chair he had been sat in earlier, a splinter burning her palm, "I found it rather charming."

Charming, it was not. But his manhandling of her, his hold on her neck and attention, had not scared her or put her off him half as much as she thought perhaps it should have. He seemed dangerous, granted, and Mother had always warned her about the dangerous men who lurked in the Winter Woods and liked little girls.

But she is not a little girl anymore, she reminds herself with a tingle running up her spine when he looks her way, black curls sweeping over his face.

Forcing little girls into marriage meant forcing them into adulthood. And if she was deemed old enough for marriage, to take lawful vows and mean them, then she thinks herself apt enough to take care of herself.

Escaping hadn't meant wanting to run away from responsibility, to her. It simply meant guaranteeing her safety, away from the arms and control of a madman.

But this man, this one stood before her who demands little but does so with impact, is no madman. She cannot know this for sure, she reflects, but he hadn't frightened her with his forcefulness. She had found herself wanting it to continue, encouraging it almost.

Madmen take, give nothing in return.

If he was truly as dangerous as Mother told her all men who were said to inhabit the forest were, Sansa would be dishonoured and disrobed right now, wouldn't she? Perhaps even dead and served up as an offering for his wild beast of an animal.

Then again, he did mention eating her up, didn't he?

She teases him back, stopping the rather dull conversation, their entente from breaching into miscommunication.

"I don't think that word has ever been used to describe me or my behaviour, lamb."

Lamb. She already dislikes the name.

"Sansa."

"Lamb." It's his turn to grin now, with a crooked smile and his skin softly creasing into lines around his eyes. "Until you prove me otherwise."

"And how would I do that?"

Tentatively, he steps toward her, hands at his hips, fidgeting with a leather strap.

She swallows a breath, refusing to move away from under his gaze. They are similar height but his eyes are darker than hers, almost as black as his clothing, and her ice blue ones almost lose their coolness from his heat.

He pulls on the edge of the leather, securing the knot of the belt around his hips, and then moves a hand to the table, picking up the discarded knife he had been wielding moments ago. Jon keeps his smile, holds out the knife to her, the blade pointed at his own chest, only inches away from piercing through his thin layer of clothing.

"You get to find dinner, tonight."

They've eaten something he managed to scramble up. They drank not too long ago.

The evening sky grows darker by the minute, lit only by falling snowflakes. Without much of a second thought, she grabs the weapon from his hand and firmly holds it in her own. With a slight lick of her lips, she glances down at the tool, "Perfect."

He nods then, brushing off the moment and stepping away from her to pick up the rest of his stuff.

She watches from the corner of her eye as he dresses, fastening his leather top by tugging on the strings with force. Slipping a thick, heavy looking black cloak from over the edge of his bed, she stares as he throws it over his shoulders and manages to close it up faster than she can even pull on the clasp of her own cape, the red cloth creased up in her hands.

Her nimble fingers wrap around her skirts then, when her subconscious senses him glance in her direction and her newfound need to be desired wants to keep his attention, pulling the right side up until her leg is bared, safe for her wool stocking.

She flicks the falling hair from her face with a blow from her lips, lashes fluttering and back curved as she reaches to grab the knife left on the table.

Despite knowing it would be much more practical and logical to just carry it around in her basket, she pulls on the top of her stocking, and slowly slips the cold blade against her skin, holding back a shriek from the chill. She keeps her free hand pressed against the inside of her thigh, fingers smoothing patterns against her skin, her thumb gently pushing the edge of her skirts higher.

"When you're done with your show, we can leave."

Her stocking flings back against her thigh with a harsh sting then, as she looks up at him with flushed cheeks and a shocked look on her face. Had she been putting on a show?

"I was not putting on a show." Sansa gasps a breath, stands straight with hands pulling her skirts back down her legs. She takes note of his stare. Even if she had been showcasing herself, was he going to pretend he had not enjoyed it?

Maybe she is toying with him, she thinks to herself, but she cannot understand why.

She blames it on the forest. It turns pure thoughts into indecent ideas. That had to be it. The Woods were playing with her good, proper nature.

Unwilling to let him feel like he'd won at a game they seemed to have been playing all day, she clears her throat.

"If I was putting on a show," she throws up her hood, and checks her cloak is safely fastened, "You wouldn't be asking me to stop."

"I don't remember asking you to stop." He points out, stepping around the long table with a leather bag thrown over his shoulders, filled with weapons and maps and other stuff she imagines he needs to keep them both alive.

Sansa stills, but maintains her newfound persona and smiles as she picks up her basket and stops beside the door. Slipping on her leather gloves, she retorts, "I don't remember you asking me to continue, either."

Pulling the door open and letting flakes of pure white snow begin to descend between and upon them, he speaks a with a low voice, "If you continued, you would never make it to your granny's house."

She keeps a straight face at that, brushing past him and heading outside into the cold evening air. Taking a deep breath, she begins to walk forward. Sensing his presence behind her, she cranes her neck to spot him, but a lump of white fur breezes against her leg instead.

"Ghost." She tries out his name on her tongue.

The wolf's ears perk up and he shoots her the smallest of looks before trudging off into the frozen ground, behind the trees and out of sight.

"Does he always come back?"

"Aye." Jon walks ahead of her then, leading the way and setting a steady pace.

Sansa clasps both hands in front of her, binding leather-clad fingers together. She ignores the chills that cover her skin, making her flesh erupt in small goosebumps as they move forward, following Ghosts's paw prints in the thickening snow.

They continue on this way, in a comfortable silence, with only a handful of looks shared between them and a few comments on the cold and how long the trip should take, for the next few hours.

She underestimated the length of her journey, finding herself thankful for his presence. Alone, she would be dead and nothing but bones and dried blood on snow within a handful of hours.

"Several days." His brows knit and she manages to step into sync with him, having sped up her pace to reach his side. He casts her the briefest of glances, "You picked the worst time to go off seeking your independence."

"I do not seek my independence."

"I thought you wanted to be free of this man you claim fawns over you?" His lip curls up then and she wonders if he doesn't buy into her story.

It isn't a lie. Ramsay Bolton has always had a weird fascination with her since they were but children.

"I'm already free of him because I am not his." Sansa corrects him pointedly, pulling on her braid and sweeping it around the other side of her neck to soother an absent itch. "The problem is that I have no wish to become his. I wish to remain free."

"What about your parents?"

"My parents don't see things the way I do." She speaks, sniffling her nose to block some droopiness. "Well, Father never really feels anything anymore. But my Mother, she thinks I will eventually fall for him, no doubt, because that's what happened with her and Father."

"Then why does your Father no longer feel?"

"He ventured out one day, came back a week later, wasn't the same." The details are fuzzy, blurry. "They may as well be estranged."

Never one to care much about the villager's affairs or problems, he only nods once, twice, lips wet.

"But I want to feel." Sansa continues on, noticing his withdrawal, without a care as to whether or not he listens to her. She can always keep herself company, if she has to. "But not with him. I don't want to feel that."

"You want freedom." He's looking up through squinted eyes, watching as the sky falls into an almost sudden darkness, and the snowfall slows.

Looking over at him, and sharing his view of the winter sky, she whispers, "Aye."

"Are you not free now?"

Pondering this thought for a moment, she lowers her gaze and admires the way her boots sink in the fresh snow. She is free. Away from home, from the village, she shares none of her people's constraints. If he can be free, and live alone in isolation and desertion, can't she?

The problem is that she does not want to be alone. Rather, she wants her freedom, but adoration and companionship all the same. Younger, she believed in knights and maidens and tales of love conquering all. But with age and experience, she matured, and those sweet dreams are now just illusions once glossed over by infancy.

She will settle for affection if she has to, as she has given up on finding love and the romances of knights in white gold armour.

"No." She starts walking again, going ahead of him but keeping in the right direction as to not steer them off-path. "I want freedom with a side of something, Jon. Not to be trapped in the woods with nobody and nothing to love." Love is a strong word, and she scolds herself for even mentioning it.

"You don't have to be alone." He speaks, quietly, in a soft voice. "I wasn't." She hears him mumble, but with a shift of her brow, she decides to avoid the topic for now. Curiosity will get the better of her one day. Perhaps he is referring to Ghost, after all.

"Well, I won't be. We will find my granny, and then I will be on my way, out of your sights forever." She forces a smile, ignores a strange feeling scratching at her chest. "Perfect for you and I both."

"Aye." He agrees, and the ache in her chest deepens when he walks past her without even one glance.

Why does she feel like she will miss him already, when she has only known of his existence for less than a day?

"Although I'm not too sure how I can possibly go on living without you and your little shows now that I have had the pleasure of witnessing one firsthand."

He is teasing her, as she had done him earlier. But he keeps his back to her, the thick black wool of his cloak making his curls bounce.

She smiles though, quickening her footsteps to catch up with him.

The moon is out in full, clear through the dark sky, and she hears distant growls and howls, and hopes Ghost is nearby and safe.

"Oh, I'm sure the memory of me will be enough to keep you alive. Well, one part of you, at least." Her eyes almost widen at her own suggestion and she bites her tongue to stop herself from saying anything else.

"You sound very sure of yourself." There's a hint of amusement in his voice, but it's husky and oh so deliciously northern and she gulps.

Sansa watches as he drops his bag down onto the snow, at the base of a large white tree, coated in dark twigs and crimson leaves. He plops himself down on the pile of snow at the base, legs spread, knees pulled up and his elbows resting on his leather breeches as he roots through his stuff, pulling open the flaps of the bag.

"Is this where you kill me?"

"No, this is where I leave you to your own devises and you bring us dinner."

She frowns, lowering herself down next to him to rest the wicker basket on one of the tree's thick roots. "Alone?"

"Alone." He confirms, "You said you weren't a lamb. Prove it."

Suddenly dreading having to use the weapon she made a scene of storing away, Sansa holds her breath. She has never hunted an animal, has never killed anything in her life, except for a fly or two.

She moves her right leg up onto the tree trunk, her skirts softly riding up her leg. With her hands on her covered knee, she takes a moment, hesitating.

"Do you need help?"

"With the knife?" She sounds almost eager.

"Aye." He smirks at her tone, knocks his knees together then spreads them again, repeats the motion. "Or finding food."

"Oh." Grinding her teeth together, she drops her gaze to her leg. "Could you?"

"Admit you're a fragile little lamb." Jon blinks, his eyes shifting from her face to her leg.

"Are you really so childish?" It's lame, she knows, for an argument. "Do you just assume that because I cannot kill something that lives and breathes and has feelings that I am weak?"

"I never said you were weak." He shakes his head, shifts closer on the trunk but somehow keeps his position. He runs a hand through his hair and moves it back. "But you wish to be independent, be no man's property. Lamb are property, they're prey. They are the meal, they aren't the ones serving it. Men are predators, lamb."

Sansa licks her lips, at the thought of a serving of meat amongst other deadly things. "And what are women, then?" She inhales, "The prey?"

"Women are predators, too. If they kill things that live and breathe and feel." He feeds her words back to her, noticing her blue eyes darkening. "Just as men are lambs if they sit idly by, without hunting and taking what they want."

"What are you?" She holds her chin up, feeling her hood slide until it almost falls off. She feels her breathing pattern falter when he moves his right arm from his leg and brings it toward her. His hand wraps around her calf, beneath her skirts but over her wool stocking. Her long lashes sweep across her cheeks as she watches him, lets him, eyes meeting his broody ones, "Are you a predator? Do you hunt and kill and take what you want?"

"What do you think?" He husks, voice low as though it needs clearing.

The redhead feels her back straighten when his hand moves up, the black leather squeaking, rugged against the cream wool covering her flesh.

Her breath hitches when he sweeps his hand under her thigh, palm flat against her bare skin, and he pulls her closer. She almost stumbles, but moves a hand to his padded shoulder for support, fingers gripping the wispy black wool tightly. His palm pushes against the inside of her thigh, spreading her legs and forcing her skirts up her leg to her hip.

"Am I your prey?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you stay right there and let me do what I want with you."

He pulls the knife from her garment then, first around the handle of the blade and removing his hand from her body completely. She craves its warmth, misses its presence.

"What would you do with me?" She finds herself asking, cursing under her breath with words she never speaks. Mother would not be proud. Damn this forest.

"With you, or to you?"

"Are they not the same thing?"

"Not nearly." He declares, the knife swapping hands when he peeks up at her through his own lashes as he moves to take off his gloves, "Would you like to know the difference?"

"Is it improper?"

"Because propriety has been your priority all day, of course." He chuckles to himself with a nod, finding this situation amusing, she noted.

Taking a move to close the space between her legs, she is stopped when he grips her knee and holds her into place.

"It's very improper."

"Sinfully?" Foolishly, she wants to hear it. Maybe it's the enchantment of the forest. Maybe it's the inexperienced young woman in her. Maybe it's the desire to be craved by a wolf of a man.

"Ridiculously." He replies, sharp teeth almost scraping his bottom lip as he smiles, dark yet charming in the moonlight.

She swallows a breath, keeps her chin up. "Tell me." She pouts, lips plump and straight. Young ladies should not ask such things. Then again, young ladies should not venture off into the Winter Woods and seek out the companionship of handsome but strange men. Young ladies should not put their innocence on display to those who may seek to tarnish it.

"Doing something with you would mean you were to participate. Willingly or not, preferably yes. Say, I touch you, and wait for you to touch me. Make you touch me, even." He frowns, seemingly unpleased himself with that idea. "What I could do with you is throw you around and have my way with you and seek some sort of enjoyment from it all." Jon speaks truthfully, eyeing her carefully.

She feels her brow itch a fragment higher, "And to me?"

"To you? Oh, you would be my meal." His hands glides higher up her leg, skin on skin, her pale flesh turning pink from the friction of his calloused palm. He slides two fingers under the cloth of her stocking, curling the wool between his knuckles. "You see, I'm a wolf. And you, well, how delicious you would be to devour."

"I might enjoy it, myself."

"Perhaps."

"You do have a divine mouth." She mumbles, almost stumbles over her words. Sansa licks her lips and chews at the insides of her cheeks for an instant. "What a delicious mouth you have."

"The better to kiss you with, my lamb."

"What beautiful eyes you have, wolf."

"The better to see you with, my lamb."

She feels her cheeks burn from the heat despite the cold, from the feel of his hand tightly gripping the back on her thigh, fingertips probably bruising her flesh.

Leaning down, she removes her gloves hurriedly and runs a hand through his hair, pulling on the strands before wrapping her palm around the base of his skull and tugging, forcing his head backwards.

He breathes out with an ache at his skull, and she smoothes her hand from his head to his face, fingertips tapping against his beard, dancing along his lips.

"My, what sharp teeth you have."

"All the better to eat you with."

She slides her index finger over his bottom lip then, past his mouth and between his teeth. She feels his tongue touch, lick the pad of her fingertip, and she holds back a moan when he bites down softly into her flesh.

"Fuck."

Mother would not be proud.

Sansa feels the hood of her cape slide from her hair as she moves into him, pulling her leg away from his grasp before dropping it back down on the other side of him, her left leg now by right. She makes a bold move to straddle him, against the tree with her legs parted to surround his open ones and her hands resting on his shoulders.

Never one to be defeated, she takes his reaction, his lips falling open and eyes darting from her face to their laps, as a good sign and she lowers herself down onto him completely.

She has never been so bold, never been so forward in anything. Without even a kiss of experience, she finds herself knee-deep in this experiment. He won't harm her, despite his claims.

The freezing air passes them by without a second thought as he slides his hands up her legs to her waist to her ribcage. Sansa skips a breath and holds her tongue when he squeezes there, thumbs pressed beneath her the curves of her breasts.

She slides forward, the thickness of her skirts gliding over the leather of his breeches and she reaches a hand down his body. Curving down his chest to the top of his breeches, "Kiss me, wolf."

She wants to know what it feels like, what it would be like to be devoured without actually being tainted before the Gods.

Jon lifts his left hand from her body and brings it up to her face, forcing his fingers through her braid and pulling her face closer to his. She leans into him, eyes watching his mouth thoughtfully.

Before she can react, his lips are pushing against her own. She feels the bruise of his kiss, his teeth grating her bottom lip. It's rough, yet she appreciates the softness that hides behind the brutality. He lets her take her time, opening her mouth when she wants to, sheepishly sliding her tongue to meet his own after a few moments.

When he goes to pull away, to give her space, it's she who holds him steady, with a hand around his neck and a smirk on her bruising lips.

She scratches her fingernails against his flesh and smiles when he groans, low and deep at once. "Do it again."

Cheeks flushed but body daring, she ignores her brain telling her to back away and keep him off of her. Instead, her hand slides further down his waist, pressing and smoothing over the laces of his breeches. She gasps when her hand glides over his swollen pants, and she raises her fingers to confirm her suspicion, but keeps the ball of her palm pressed against his length, eliciting a groan on his half. Oh. This.

She feels him bite her bottom lip at that, eyes closed as he tries to quieten a growl. Pulling away, the young woman licks her lip and tastes the faintest amount of blood dancing on the tip of her tongue.

With a shaky breath, Sansa smirks, refuses to take two steps backward in her progress, "My, what a big cock you have, wolf."

"The better to fuck you with, my dear."

As one of them reaches for the other, and she isn't too sure which one of them does first, there's a low growl from beside the tree.

Turning her head, Sansa spots Ghost, mouth bloody and a dead rabbit hanging from his teeth.

"Dinner."

"Indeed."


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update, but it moves the story along and toys with their chemistry. Enjoy!

Having learnt the needle, how to sew, repair tears in clothing, Sansa was never one to pick up tools and go hunting.

Her little sister had been the wilder one of the pair, always following Robb and his friends out to the shallow end of the woods for food, searching for deer with bows and arrows and a good aim.

Sansa would much rather sit down with her mother, pick up a needle, a thread, a tattered garment, and start working. It was the inner lady from a past life in her, Mother always said. She had always believed Sansa was a reminder of what could have been if their lives had been any different.

The villagers weren't terribly poor, but prospects were few and the Stark family had suffered over the years. Father simply could not bring himself to do anything, the trauma of something mysterious haunting him, following his every step. Mother was their sole provider.

But Sansa had always aspired to do good, to accomplish something. Even if it was so little as take on her mother's workload. She was helpful, kind, always did as she was told. But this trait, the one that had made her an easy target for a bargain, was her one true fault.

There was only so much one could handle, one could go through for the sake of the greater good, for family and the benefit of so many. Marriages were pacts, exchanges of offerings and people for money or financial aid.

But marrying someone she loathed was out of the question, barely even something she had to think over.

Sansa knew her family needed the Bolton's help and that she was the key to their union, but her own sanity would be jeopardised if she had to spend every waking day with that fetishist, if she had to lie with a man who made her stomach churn like salty butter.

"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"I-" She pauses, takes a second to look down at the rabbit in her lap, the palm of her right hand wrapped back around the knife he gave her, holding it against the animal's throat. "I am sure I can manage."

"Alright." Jon resigns himself, leaning back against the trunk of the tree, and rummaging through her basket. He slips the edge of the cloth over the handle and peaks inside. "Nice to see you stole from me." He smirks to himself, sliding his gloved hand beneath the cloth and retrieving an apple from the bunch stacked at the bottom of her basket, beneath some bread and a bottle of something he daren't ask about just yet.

Sansa ignores him, instead swallowing a breath as she guides her hand down to the rabbit's foot.

"What are you doing?"

"Stop hassling me!" The redhead grits her teeth, grinding them together and feeling an ache in her jaw at the sensation.

"Come here."

Unwilling to move from her seat on the opposite side of the tree trunk, she only straightens her back and wiggles her shoulders to iron out a knot.

"You come here." She retorts, brows raised as she twirls the knife in her grasp.

Truth be told, she wants to blame half of her difficulty to concentrate on his lips. And face. And voice. And his lips.

Having never been so close to a man, a boy even, the ache she had felt in her chest and the longing she currently bathes in eats at her. She had enjoyed it, wanted it.

He was not a brute, was not as rough as she had thought he might be. His calloused hands were somehow smooth against her skin, his pink lips burning hers, bruising her circulation and increasing her strange desire to run her fingers over them continuously.

She would do it again, she wants to. But the reminder of the words spoken between them in that moment keeps her back, stops her from tugging at his curls and making him kiss her again.

She had gone too far, too deep into her exploration, and she had let him divulge, take from her. It wasn't so much the taking that was the problem, but rather the guilt she now feels in the aftermath.

Mother would not be proud. Mother would have never said such things.

"My, what a big cock you have, wolf."

Ladies did not speak like this.

And the dream a small part of her still holds dear, to escape her village and never look back and become someone else entirely, would be dead in the water if anybody ever heard her speak those words.

Wolf. Perhaps this is why he holds no shame, does not seem to regret touching her. Wolves are wild, dangerous.

"You going to stab it in the paw?" Jon is stood in front of her, brows knitted and eyes dark as he frowns. His hair falls in his face from a gust of cool wind, and he moves to kneel at her feet.

"Where do I stab it?"

Instead of answering her, he instead wraps his fist around her own and forces her hand towards the animal's neck again, fingers pressing down into hers and jamming the blade into the rabbit's fur.

"There." Jon nods once, licks his dry lips, "Now slice it open." His gruff voice tells her as she finally looks down from his face, focusing on the knife.

With a pull toward her, the steel of the blade shifts, digging underneath the pet's skin and watching it bleed. She moves the blade so it lies flat beneath the lining of the fur, and tugs, grimacing as the skin slowly peels away.

With a glance up at him, half expecting praise for her accomplishment, she finds him with a mouth-full of shiny green apple, sloppy and practically uncaring for manners. "Did you steal one of my apples?" She quips, yanking on the knife.

"You stole them from me, lamb." He informs her, resting his elbows down on his thighs as he squats above crushed snow, teeth sharply digging into the fruit for another bite. A chunk of the apple rips off, sticky juice running down his chin and she holds back the urge to wipe the liquid from his skin. His tongue traces his bottom lip to collect the lost juice and she feels the muscles in her neck tighten.

"All the better to eat you with."

Sansa gulps. Would you? She refrains the thought, chooses to clear her throat and shift her gaze from his wet lips to her hands, covered in blood.

Fresh blood, she notes. It smells sickly, and she holds the knife back over to him with shaky fingers.

The dark haired man takes it after a second, watching her intently. "You might want to clean yourself up."

She simply nods, standing with a breath and her hands outstretched. "Where?"

"Are we not in the middle of snow covered woods?" He chuckles, more to himself than to her, and walks back around the tree, bloody knife in one hand, half-eaten apple in the other.

Making sure the skinned rabbit is safe on the snowy trunk, she heads off past some frozen rose bushes to find a liquid patch of melting ice. Pushing past the bushes with her shoulders and avoiding cob-web covered branches, she sinks down into a fresh patch of snow in a small clearing.

Kneeling down onto the ground, she keeps her hands elevated to avoid touching her skirts and spoiling it with even more blood.

Granny will surely afford her a clean dress when she gets there.

She feels a shiver run up her spine as her cold hands dive into the snow, letting the white dust coat her skin up to her elbows. It's colder than anything she has ever felt and she regrets not replacing her gloves back on her hands before beginning her work.

She bunches up the snow in her hands and massages it through her fingers the best she can to rid herself of most of the blood, though the now tarnished red snow lies in front of her pitiably.

When her hands are cleaner than before, and all that's left is come scrapes of dried blood on her wrists or beneath her fingernails, Sansa stands back up to retrace her steps.

But upon turning around to head back, she finds the snow littered ground freshly covered and her prints gone.

Her thin boots leave traces in mud, dirt, snow, she knows this, so for her footprints to be entirely gone baffles her.

"Jon?"

After a few moments, with no reply, no voice to guide her direction, Sansa takes a tentative step out to her left.

The clearing is surrounded in rosebushes and twiggy trees. The sky is dark, a royal blue turning black by the second.

"Ghost?"

Pulling up the hood of her cape, she stands patiently waiting for the animal to find her and lead her back to their makeshift camp. The wolf would hear her, surely. She feels a gust of wind blow past her then, her pale skin erupting in gooseflesh beneath the layers of her clothing.

The cold air seems to linger around her for a good moment, trapping her flesh in a dazed freeze and her lips drift open. Spinning around to take in her surroundings, she notes that neither Jon nor Ghost are present, but the cool breeze seems to persist.

Oddly, she takes in, the few remaining leaves on the trees are not blowing, and the snow on the ground remains unmoved. As though there is a small blizzard wrapping around her body, she feels the hairs poking out of her braid tickle her skin beneath the hood of her cloak, until the hood slips away and she is left fresh-faced in the cold air.

Tugging on the hood to keep it up, she forces it over her head and chews into her bottom lip, watching as snow begins to fall again, around her but not on her.

"Magic of the Winter Woods." She breathes.

She had heard stories of such things as a child, when Granny would read to Arya and she before bed, scary tales of awful things that lurked in the dark.

"When the night is dark, and the snows fall freely, the beasts will come out."

"What kind of beasts?" Arya always asked, knowing the answer every single time but wanting to give her sister a small fright.

"Terrible creatures, child. Dark fur they have, covered in scars from those who hunted them."

"Wolf." Sansa rasps.

"What are you doing?"

Her eyes flash open, ice blue meeting steel grey.

"I was cleaning my hands."

She licks her lips to find some moisture, glancing up at the settled sky, noticing the lack of wind or snow.

Jon decides to ignore her obvious confusion for now, "Aye." He mutters, "I should do the same." He looks down at his hands, coated in blood much in the same way hers had been and what could only be animal guts. "The rabbit is roasting."

Had he started a fire? She could do with the heat.

She shivers, runs her dry hands up and down her arms, crinkling her nose. She steps closer to him, unsure if she intends to walk past him or say something.

"Will you feed me one of your apples, wolf?" The words slip out before she can think them over, comprehend them.

"When my hands are clean, I suppose?" He assumes, seems to agree to her strange request.

"If you prefer." She frowns, uncertain about her own desire. What could this possibly lead to?

Jon seems to hold back a smile, his eyes darkened in an already dim moonlight, "Or would you rather I fed you a bloody apple? Would you like that, lamb?"

"Your lamb is quite famished." Her voice lowers and she does not even recognize herself. She steps closer, hands rising to his chest, eyes focused on his lips. "Although for now I could settle for the juices of a fine apple."

He keeps his hands away from her body, blood seeping down his wrist and dripping onto the snow. "I don't think anything could ever taste as sweet at the juices spilt from the forbidden fruit."

"I always wondered why it was forbidden." She pauses, removes one hand from his chest and moves to grab his right wrist. Pulling it up between them, and glances down at the freezing red skin. "You don't happen to know, do you?"

"I don't, no."

"Mother told me it was because a man once ventured into the woods, had only one bite of the fruit, and died the following morning. Perhaps it symbolizes death." She wraps her fingers around his bloody ones, her insides shuddering at the sound of wet skin rubbing together.

Why is she doing this? What is making her cross a line, once again?

"I happen to think your Mother is wrong."

"Well, how would you know? You said you have no idea why such a delicious fruit is forbidden. Did you not?"

"Aye. I said it." He speaks, voice low and eyes focusing in on her own, "But we each have our theories, do we not?"

"Aye. What is your theory then, wolf?"

"The apple is forbidden to eat because it falls on the ground like an innocent is born. It doesn't know anything of the dangers that await in the woods. It's forbidden because we want it, we want to taste it, but it is too divine to look at."

She perks a brow, pulls her lips into a half-smile, "Did you not taste one earlier?"

"I believe I tasted two things of divine beauty earlier, aye. Both forbidden, too. But I only tasted the juices of one."

She pulls at his hand then, yanking it up to her mouth and wrapping her hand around his dirt wrist. "Would you like to taste my juices?"

"Would you let me?" His dark eyes bore into hers, hungry, starving almost.

This is what does it, what stops her from bordering into unknown territory.

He is a wolf. He will harm her. He will ruin her. Even if she finds herself enjoying it.

"Perhaps. But I believe you will be eating rabbit tonight, and not what lies beneath my skirts."

Dropping his hand suddenly, she begins to retreat away from him.

She half expects him to grab her arm and tug her back, grasp at her clothes until there is nothing left of her innocence, and she finds herself almost disappointed when he does no such thing.

Walking back in the direction he had come from, his footsteps clearing the path for her, she finds herself face to face with an overnight campsite. Their belongings at the tree, a small fire crackling with carefully placed twigs cooking a rabbit, his pet wolf guarding their haven from worse creatures.

As she approaches the fire, she spots the meat of the rabbit turning black, burning from the forgotten flames. It's her fault, she thinks. She pulls the branch placed through the animal from above the fire and places it down atop the snow, initially waiting for Jon to be the one to carve it up.

But something tells her to pick up what is quickly becoming her favourite tool and start cutting the meat.

She has somehow managed to carve up small pieces of the meat for them to eat by the time he returns, hands clean and leather gloves back over his fingers.

"Maybe you are no lamb, after all." Jon smirks at the sight of her prepared meal, watching as she twirls a twig around with a chunk of oversized rabbit on the end.

"I'm a fast learner."

He settles down beside her, the side of his leather breeches rubbing against her wool skirt as he settles in, "That remains to be seen.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter to hopefully make up for the last short one. Also, so much stuff happens, it's kind of ridiculous. Anyway, lemme know what you think. And enjoy! (I haven't proof-read it yet so I'll get to that tomorrow, I just really wanted it posted.)

The rabbit had not done much to sate her appetite, her hunger grown after several days of hiking through treacherous woods.

The snow had fallen thicker overnight, after they had gone to sleep with their backs facing each other. Jon had placed his belongings in between their bodies, afforded her some space, making sure not to touch her.

She wasn't sure why he had done this, but she liked to imagine he had done it out of courtesy, chivalry even. Perhaps he was decent.

Upon waking though, her feet almost frozen numb and her loose hair knotted in clumps beneath the hood of her cape, she'd learned the truth of his actions.

Sometime in her sleep, she had managed to nudge his stuff aside with her knee, forcing it down by their feet. Her stocking-clad knee was then pressing into the side of his thigh, dress partially flung over the cold leather of his trousers. Her arm seemed to have tossed itself over onto his torso, her gloved fingers sprawled out against his coated ribcage.

Blue eyes opening to stare into the white sky, Sansa watches as flakes of melting snow drop on her face and disappear into her rosy skin, leaving barely trace of water. She shifts to lie on her back, licking her lips to moisten them from the cold's harsh sting.

She does any of this before realising where her hand and leg are, and she moves them slowly, carefully trying not to wake him. She wants to think it would have been the setting for an awkward conversation or, at the very least, a scuffle and clearing of coughy throats. But Sansa doesn't think anything could possibly get any stranger between them.

She resigns herself to lying on her back with her legs stretched out and her hands over her stomach, but when she moves to shift a part of her dress out of under him, trying to find some comfort despite their uncomfortable situation, her eyes catch sight of why he may have felt the need to build a wall of privacy between them.

The groin area of his pants in engorged beneath his cloak, from what she can tell, and Sansa finds herself biting her bottom lip as she stares. Oh.

Is this what happens when men are left out in the cold? Nobody had ever told her about this, about what it meant, and she wonders if he would be embarrassed by it.

Is it something to be embarrassed about, she ponders, quirking a brow and keeping her blue orbs strained on the top of his breeches.

Maybe he knew this would happen, knew the chilly winter air would affect him and that was why he had created a divide between them. Maybe it wasn't so much embarrassment as it was a need to not overstep a boundary.

She knew men's bodies reacted certain ways, against their own will sometimes. But the reasons for which escaped her as Mother had never thought it an appropriate subject to discuss with her maturing daughter.

But Sansa was grown, and if her family deemed her old enough to marry, then surely they should find her mature enough to know what happens to men and their appendages.

She reaches a hand up beneath her hood and pulls her knotted hair to one side, resting on the padding against the hood of her cape as she lies back down on her side.

Curiously, she wanders her hand back over to his side, gently walking her fingertips up his body, from his hip to his shoulder and higher, feeling the rise and fall of his frame as he breathes in, out, sleeping peacefully.

"Stop."

Or not sleeping.

She doesn't say anything, only keeps the pads of her covered fingertips pressed against the bare skin of his throat, focusing her eyes on his pulse, watching as the blue veins in his neck throb calmly.

He is rather quite warm, she notices, frowning when he turns on his side to face her.

"I told you to stop."

"Your trousers were swollen." She speaks suddenly, flinching as his eyes shift from grey to brown, gazing directly into her own. Her flinch leaves a blush on her ivory skin and she bites the insides of her cheeks.

"You have yourself to blame." Jon tells her, face expressionless and brutally honest.

"How?" Her voice breaks and her breath catches when he grabs her hand and places it on his abdomen. She turns her fingers towards his lap, palm flat over his clothing. "How did I do it?"

"You are innocent, aren't you?" Sansa sees a hint of a smirk behind his words but it vanishes before she can find a retort. Instead, when he bares his teeth and opens his mouth, she cuts him off short.

"Is my purity a problem for you?"

"It's more of a challenge than a problem, lamb." Call me Sansa, she wants to beg of him.

The girl raises a brow, moving her gaze to the hand on his stomach, absentmindedly moving it lower and crinkling his black clothes, "Is that why you built a barricade between us then? Because I'm a challenge you don't wish to take on?"

"I don't recall saying I didn't want to take you on." He tells her, "In fact, I quite like the prospect." He chuckles to himself, softly, briefly. But then his white teeth flash and she grips the edge of his breeches in her hand, fingers curling around the rim.

"Why were your pants swollen?"

"It was not my pants that were swollen, but rather what lies underneath." He speaks earnestly, and she swallows a breath at the declaration. "The barricade, as you call it, was so it wouldn't happen."

"But it did." Had he been on his side, too? Pressed against her? She feels a slight heat rush to her cheeks at the thought.

"It did, because you fucked the barricade and got closer than you were supposed to."

"That doesn't explain your situation."

"All men do it, lamb, it's a natural occurrence when a pretty lady starts rubbing up against them in the nighttime."

"Are you saying that I'm a pretty lady?"

"I'm saying you were rubbing up against me and didn't seem to mind."

"I was asleep."

"Aye. And now I'll forever be wondering what you were dreaming of." He rolls back over, removes her hand from his body and drops it down by her side.

Sansa sits up after he does, arms holding her body tight beneath her cape. "Would you not like to know what I was dreaming about?" She flutters her lashes, running her tongue over her dry lips, feeling the crack of soft skin.

He only grunts, and she takes this for a No, watching as he packs up his stuff and assembles their belongings, readying for the trek ahead.

"Even if it involves your mouth?"

"You wouldn't even know what to dream of." Jon informs her, rubbing her inexperience in her face. He rummages through her basket for a moment, pulling out two apples and tossing one down into her lap. "Time to go."

Standing up to match him, she picks up the apple and takes a chunk out of its side with a scowl. He has no idea what she was dreaming about. He knows nothing about what she can conjure up in that imagination of hers.

She will ignore him for as long as she can, she decides, setting her gaze on him with fury. What does he know, truthfully?

The redhead places the fruit back down in a fresh patch of snow while she ties her hair into a braid again, tugging it down by the side of her neck. Hood pulled up, she picks up the fruit and her basket, and follows after his already retreating form, following in his footsteps for the next few hours.

"We can reach shelter by nightfall if you speed up a little."

With a roll of her eyes, she quickens her stride to catch up with him, though she stays a few steps behind.

She wants to ask where this supposed shelter will be, and how long it will take to get to Granny's. But she also refuses to speak to him until he apologises for crushing her fantasy. Perhaps it was childish, but if people still think of her as a child than why shouldn't she be allowed to engage in acts of infancy every once in a while?

Children hold grudges. Children are selfish. Children have tantrums.

The shelter lies somewhere up ahead, she guesses, taking in the mountains that lie beyond this part of the Woods. The trees they walk between come to an end some miles away and she feels herself grow tired at the sight alone of the snow-coated mountains. Perfectly white, just steep enough to kill a falling huntsman.

How will they reach the top by nightfall? Granted, it was only just gone daybreak and an entire day's journey lay ahead, so it was possible they would reach this destination by darkness. They would have to walk fast, avoid rests and searching for food. But with a clear goal in mind, and a promise of refuge for the night, she determines herself to make it.

He surely was not going to carry her, was he? If she died on route, she reckons he would leave her in her place and head back to his own home, his own safe haven.

Ghost has trekked off somewhere in the woods, hopefully not too far away in case they run into trouble. But trouble lies several days behind her, doesn't it? And her family were not the kind of people to send hunters out in search of her. They would know where she went, where she intends to go.

That said, she finds herself stunned when Jon stops in his tracks and holds an arm out in front of her, stopping her movements.

"Keep quiet."

She will, she reminds herself with a sigh. Speaking to him is the last thing she wants to do right now.

Jon rounds her carefully, dropping his stuff down by her feet. Sansa frowns, confused by his actions and she holds her breath when she feels a sneeze brush past her nose.

"Does your family have dogs?"

"No, I have…" Sansa cuts herself off, feels her lids grow heavy. What?

She brushes past him to catch a glimpse of what had caught his attention, ignoring the fact that she had spoken to him after less than even a day. It had been a handful of hours at best. Her inner child would not be impressed.

"I've seen that kind of hound before." She blinks, feels her throat begin to constrict.

The animal, only one, is lurking at the edge of the Woods, behind the trees they follow and in the snow that sprinkles over the mountains. Paw-prints in the distant snow reveal that they are more than one dog lingering in their path. The beast is slowly making its way towards them, Sansa spots, and she breathes heavily.

How could they have caught up to her? How could they be ahead of her?

"It's one of Ramsay's hounds."

She has seen what they can do to people, how they reach, leap for a man's throat and tear it out, like savages hungry for their prey.

"And I take it he is the man you were hoping to evade?"

The redhead nods, pulls on the edges of her hood, wrapping her cape tighter around her body. She takes a few steps backwards, "Man would not be an appropriate word to use on him. He hunts people, not things." Madmen are no true men. "He uses people as toys, as… as targets to feed his cruel appetites."

"Do you care to elaborate?" Jon lifts a brow, steps into line beside her, but his left side covers her right, shielding her almost.

She shivers at the thought, feeling an invisible breeze sweep up her spine.

"He once made my friend Jeyne kiss him. It was a dare, you see. And Jeyne found him quite handsome. But Ramsay, he doesn't care much for flattery. He just wants to have fun, to enjoy himself, to feed his odd fetish of making people's skin crawl. I warned her not to, to avoid him, but she kissed him, and stopped before he told her to. He told her to run, after that, and set his hounds on her."

Sansa stills, eyes wide as the dog moves closer in the distance.

"She came back from their little game with bite marks and blood gushing from her arm. She said he went after her with his bow and his arrows and he made her run silently through the village in the nighttime when we were all asleep. She said he had his bitches rip at the skin of her arms until she screamed too loud, loud enough to wake the villagers."

Feeling her feet tap against something solid, Sansa briefly glances down to look at the stack of items resting on the dirtied snow.

"Could you kill it?"

Looking over at her, Jon follows her gaze, dropping down onto his sword resting at her feet. He reaches down to pick it up, grasping the covered blade in his fist. He wraps the belt around his waist, "I could try. Though I fear it may give away our footing. Blood would spill and they'd be no escaping its gush. It would follow us. Which means your intended would follow said path and thus reach us. And I don't believe that is what we want."

"But we're faster than he is, aren't we? It has been a handful of days since I left, surely his soldiers wouldn't have had the time-"

"I imagine he is traveling by horse, Sansa. We're on foot." He tells her honestly, ignoring his use of her name instead of her pet name. She scolds herself for letting a blush tint her cheeks at the mention, at the sound of her true name on his pink lips.

"We cannot just stay here." She speaks, voice lowering as the animal approaches slowly, surely. "We really cannot stay here much longer." Fear of being caught, of being found and thrown into the awaiting arms of a crazed boy spikes her energy, refusing to let her tired eyes droop closed. "Where is Ghost?"

"Around. Somewhere." Jon says simply.

She wraps her now gloved hand around his arm, enjoying the crease of the leather beneath her grip. "You have to get Ghost to kill it."

"Are you giving my wolf orders now?" She wants to imagine a hint of amusement behind his gaze, but she would imagining things, she concludes. This is no laughing matter.

"I'm giving you orders to pass along to your wolf. I'm giving my wolf orders."

"Is that what I am, then? Your wolf, your beast of a man?"

"That would mean you were my man. And you are not that." Sansa informs him, letting her touch fall from his arm, finding her hand instead caught in his own when he grabs it. "You can be whoever you want to be in my memory once we reach Granny's. I'll let you decide."

Once we reach Granny's. Once we part ways. Once I go down one path, and you the other. Once I return to my family and you to your desolate isolation.

His hand wrapped around her own drops, and instead he lifts his hands to her face, around the base of her neck. He tugs at the strings of her cape and pulls them tight, tying them into a simple but sturdy knot.

"When Ghost comes out of the woods, you run."

"Which direction?"

"Wherever the hounds are not."

"But you- How will you know where I am?"

"Believe that I can manage." He warns her.

Sansa can only nod, quickly bending down to make sure her boots are laced before picking up her basket.

She stands straight, with her body half turned away from his. Her chest is facing his side, close enough to feel his strange warmth but far enough away from him to spin and run without so much as touching him.

When she spots a mass of white fur creep out from behind the trees, she sets off, down the path directly behind them, straight yet curved by trees and rosebushes.

She hears growling behind her, assumes Ghost has somehow reappeared in time to seek out the enemy, his meal. The beast is a direwolf, larger than wolves and stronger than hounds. Ramsay's hunter will surely meet a gruesome end, she thinks, hopes.

She tries to avoid all thoughts of Jon as she runs, stepping over uncovered branches growing through the dusted ground. He will be right behind her, if not directly then only some short distance away.

He knows his way, she reminds herself. Or at least he can guide himself through the Winter Woods the best any man could given its tricks and its tendency to mess with one's imagination.

Her cape trails heavy behind her and she takes a moment's pause to pick up the long train in her hands and bunch it up around her fists, forcing the material down into her basket so it stays raised as she runs.

With no sounds coming from behind her, and no rapid footsteps approaching, she settles down behind a large white tree, pressing her back against the moulded shape in its corps. With a heavy breath, she lets her head fall back against the tree, too, and she closes her eyes.

Catch up with me. Find me. Please.

If Jon fails to find her, if he can't make it to her or simply cannot locate her, she isn't sure what she is to do. She has little to no navigation skills, this entire journey proving this point. She is perhaps even further from Granny's house than she had been those first days, after running and escaping and trying to remain safe. Visiting Granny had never been so dangerous when she was a child, when Robb or Father lead the way.

But she isn't going with Robb or Father. She is being led there by a man who seeks comfort in being alone, though his grins and words sometimes have her thinking he quite enjoys her company. Perhaps he will miss her, their dynamic, when she reaches her destination and thanks him with no true gift to offer in gratitude.

Making sure he and Ghost were left alone from now on seems like quite a simple feat, something she could manage after some inquiries and guaranteeing they were to be no danger to the villagers.

Making sure he lived happily alone for the rest of his days without being bothered seemed rather difficult, however. She had promised not to bother him after this, after he had helped her, but how could she? Would she be able to go on, to pretend the man who helped her live and remain safe, was nothing more than an encounter?

He was slowly infecting her, bringing her blood to a boil in a delicately arousing manner, making her ivory skin turn to gooseflesh with as little as a glance.

Perhaps he will have a change of heart and appreciate her offer of frequent visits. She could come and see him. Or he could visit her. He would surely get along with Arya.

Her eyes flutter open at the realisation that she is treating their odd trysts as nothing more than a friendship in its purest state. She was fooling no one, not even herself.

He would never be allowed to see her in the village. He was a brute, by their standards, and no matter how much she protested and tried to convince them of his decency, it would be to no prevail.

She would be the girl who cried wolf.

Only her cries would not stem from lying, but rather longing. She would long for him despite the villager's, her family's urgencies to forget him.

It is not a friendship in the purest state between them. She is experiencing something close to lust, something that dances along the brink of desire and pushes her shove by shove over that ledge with each passing day.

Deciding to march on and perhaps get a clear view of things, she reaches a clearing past the woods and steps out onto untouched snow. It's thick, fallen over the course of days gone by, and her boots sink until her calves are half covered by the dust.

She tries to locate where they had been earlier, down to the south-east of where she is now, she reckons. Nothing is there, however, only dirty prints on the white ground, reminding her of where the enemy lurked moments ago.

Had it been only moments, or a longer lapse in time? She had lost track of how long she'd been running, trudging through and onward to get to somewhere the hounds weren't.

She feels her skin crawl, erupting in shivers of horror at the thought of Ramsay being close behind. His hounds were strong beasts, savage bitches, and his soldiers were virtually no different. They would find her if given the right opportunity, and time and tracks were no longer on her side. They would slay Jon's wolf, and surely burn the man himself.

They would cry false tales of how he stole her, tainted her. They would make an example of the man who offered to save her in exchange for next to nothing.

Her only consolation came from knowing that most villagers were not woodsmen, and while Ramsay might have enjoyed hunting people in the nighttime, winter would not agree with him.

The winter breeze had been on her side up to now, the snowy skies keeping her awake. The Winter Woods seemed to be protecting her, toying with her thoughts and perverting her soul, but guarding her well being none the less.

Perhaps the witch had spoken sense. Perhaps the witch was behind it. Perhaps what lay in that bottle was her saviour, her token to survival. It's a lame idea, she scolds herself, but anything is possible in this day and in such weather.

As Sansa settles into a pattern of glancing over the shoulders to check for any trouble, taking only four seconds between looks, she feels something wrap tightly wrap around her right hand when her head is focused left.

It's a hand, and it's bare, and she recognises the roughness of the skin, already too familiar with the way the flesh melts against her own, making her skin tingle.

"Wolf."

"Aye."

She turns to face Jon, whipping her head around with such force that she feels a pull, a strain in her neck. It hurts but she does not mind. You found me. You followed.

"We need to go." The dark haired man informs her suddenly, tugging on her hand and dragging her along behind him as he makes for the mountains.

She follows him silently for a hundred dozen steps, the snow making her legs tire and the underlying muscles ache in agony. She had never walked so much in her life, had never journeyed so far out, so far away from everything and everyone she knew.

Robb had once told her stories of how the mountains were almost the end of him, were the definite end of his friend Theon. The men had gone out searching for some savage, a drunken murderer from a neighbouring village. Only Robb had been the one to come back with a tale of how the other man had sacrificed himself for the good of them both.

The killer had still remained free, Sansa now thinks to point out.

She wants to pretend that a man living alone in the woods, after committing a crime and refusing to pay the sentence, seemed like the basis of stories and not reality. But she didn't know anything about Jon's reasons for remaining alone, for staying by himself with no one but a wolf for companionship.

Perhaps he had been the killer. Perhaps this would explain how he ever came to know these woods by heart - or as best any one man could - in the first place.

"Where is this shelter you speak of?"

"North."

"And how did you come about its existence?"

"I knew the man who lived there."

"Was it you?" She wants answers, to who he is, to where he is taking her now.

This is no longer just about getting her to Granny's house, Sansa knows. This is about keeping her safe, clear from the clutches of a deranged man who wanted to control her.

She couldn't be sure when the change happened, when their course transitioned from set goal to secure deviation.

He was protecting her, free of will, without any promise on her behalf. This, assuring her safety and setting his wolf on her enemies, covered more than just some word-of-mouth, she considers.

"Unless I once unknowingly had a red beard and knotted hair in a past life, and towered over you and I both in height, I am not the man who lived there. But I have stayed."

"Was he a friend?"

"He was an acquaintance."

She does nothing to press the matter, only follows after him with big steps and wide movements to stay by his side.

They're in the open air now, with no woods around them for acres, only thick snow at their feet, weighing down their steps and tiring their minds.

But they push forward, him ahead of her, palm clasped tightly around her own, his bare hand appreciating the warmth of her gloved one. She doesn't ask where his gloves went.

The train of her cape lies spread out across the wide patch of snow as they head north, knees bending and backs struggling in their fight to remain upright. The red of her cloak would be enough to catch anybody's attention, any man who sought them out from the woods. She could be seen for yards, miles. The contrast of red on white unsettled her, made her believe they would be spotted. And she takes in his black attire with just as much despair. Perhaps they should have clothed themselves in bedsheets and tried a little harder to face into the snowy picture they mount.

Luckily, she thanks the Gods, the mountain they climb is only several hours walk at best, though the walk itself was destabilising and her body is growing envious of the dead's eternal rest.

They reach the top after awhile, when her hand is struggling to keep ahold of his own, from sweat and coolness, and the handle of the basket she carries has officially marked her other hand through the material of her gloves. Her boots are frozen solid, and she fears removing them will result in the loss of a toe or two.

She needs heat, warmth from somewhere other than his body radiating through his layers of clothing, spreading through her by the touch of his hand. It isn't enough anymore, and she feels dehydration reach her lungs when they reach the edge of the snowed ground.

Jon drops her hand for a moment, glancing back at her with a frown. "It's right up ahead."

Sansa nods, unable to will herself to do anything else for she cannot find the strength. Sometimes, she gets flashes of what life could be like had she never escaped the threshold of her home, had she settled for a marriage and lifetime of misery. At least she would not aching this way, at least she would have comfortable accommodations.

But these thoughts feel like betrayals and she almost hates herself for even thinking them, no matter how fleeting the idea. A man is doing everything he can to get her away from that misery, from falling so low in dignity. A man is taking her where she belongs, where she needs to be.

Through some northern part of the Woods that seem to be abandoned, a no man's land, they continue forward until they reach what looks to be a narrow cobble path.

It leads down to a cabin, Sansa notes, though it does not resemble Granny's. It's bigger, less decorated with flowers and hanging baskets and more boarded up with splints of wood barring the windows, blocking most of any daylight from transpiring through the cracks.

It almost looks like Jon's cabin, if it weren't for the way no wolf hides outside and greets her.

His hand drops hers completely when they begin up the cobbles, and she digs the heels of her damp boots into the ground to avoid slipping.

While Jon walks around the side of the cabin to inspect it or open it or something or other, Sansa collapses in front of what looks like the main door, sinking her knees into the snow. She admires the decoration with hooded eyes, feels the red of her cape burn into the corners of her eyes as she basically stares into nothing. Her basket down on the ground, she rummages through it for a second, pulling out a cloth and wiping the bridge of her nose.

"Can you walk?"

She stands up slowly, unevenly, and rests a hand on his shoulder when he grips her elbow for support. She feigns a smile, follows his walk to the broken window by the side of the habitat.

Had he just broken it? She refuses to give this much thought, as he suddenly pick her up and somehow manages to deposit her through the smashed-up window frame, wooden edges almost ripping at her clothes.

Jon follows, sets his stuff down beside a fireplace across the room, and it is only then that Sansa notices the slight warmth radiating through the cabin. Or maybe it isn't warm at all and she is only feeling something other than absolute winter blistering her cheeks?

She plops her basket down on one of the tables, glancing around the room and admiring its furnishings. Deer heads and knitted tapestries. Pleasant.

Watching as Jon begins to hammer away at a new piece of wood, forcing the darned thing into place over the window, patching up the place they had just broken through, Sansa clears her throat.

A hole in the wall will not shield them, will not bring them any warmth or comfort, she thinks, so he is smart to lock them inside. She is sure they will find a way out when the time comes, when their bodies are no longer frozen over with ice and she can once feel her face.

When he's done, she watches as Jon dances across the room, reaching down beside the fireplace to pick up a bucket, and walking towards what she makes out to be a washroom in the back of the cabin. He's discarded his cloak and weapons and he wears only his tunic and breeches.

He leaves for a moment, and she hears the sound of a rusty old door open and grind to a close, before returning with a bucket-full of water. He tips the water into a basin, a dark metal tin with scratches down the sides. And then he does the same thing, over and over and over again until the tub is filled up to its supposed halfway mark with cold water.

Sansa doesn't do anything while he works, only watching him from across the cabin and admiring his movements through small glances past the curtain that separates both rooms. She remains sat in a rocky old wooden chair, hands in her lap, toying with the long strings of her cape.

"Am I to bathe?" She questions as he comes toward her, hands on his hips and fatigue drowning his face.

"I thought perhaps you might like to."

"Are you to join me?"

"I think perhaps that might be a little indecent, lamb." He smiles, half a tease despite his long face.

With a nod, she stands and begins to unknot the cape hung around her frame. The red cloth falls from her shoulders into a slump on the ground and she peels her gloves off her fingers the best she can despite her frozen muscles.

She sits back down on the chair, takes her time to unlace her boots, the cool leather burning her hands with its sting. But she takes them off after a moment, and she breathes out in pleasure when her stocking-clad socked feet meet the wooden floor. She has not been without boots for days now, has not been without a dress for even longer.

As she tugs on the strings of her dress, her gaze shifts to his face to meet his eyes. But his attention is directed elsewhere, with a hand dipped in the basin's tub, swirling the water around.

Taking a foolish girl's deep breath, she forces the thick wool dress down her body, past her arms and hips and waist and thighs and keeping her head raised as it spills at her feet, letting her icy bare skin meet the warmer air around her.

Sansa pulls on the thin ribbon of her loose braid, letting her hair fall free, down her back and shoulders. She takes her time to fold the ribbon in two, unnecessarily, before placing it down on the table.

Stood in only her shift and stockings, she suddenly feels a surreal amount of dread cross over her system. What was she possibly doing?

Bathing was one thing, but putting on yet another show for a strange man by slowly, daringly stripping was something else entirely. But he wasn't strange, not anymore. And she wasn't a little girl. She could undress how she liked, in front of whomever she liked.

She wrinkles her nose to hold back a sneeze as she approaches the tub, hands by her sides, choosing to ignore their slight tremble. She stops behind Jon, waiting for him to turn and acknowledge her.

She is tired, of walking and running, of hiding. She made a clear decision to leave home. She let herself get lost and find him. She agreed to engage in already indecent situations with him. What would one more foolish thing be to her now every-expanding list of firsts?

It's for the warmth, she tells herself, because two bodies is better than one for building heat and keeping it. It's for comfort, to soothe an ache, a sleeplessness she would like to satisfy.

Would the water not warm faster with two bodies to fill it?

"Will you join me now?"

He turns around at the sound of her voice, dark eyes meeting her ice cold ones before they drift down her body, taking in her shift and stopping on the tops of her stockings.

"Was this a part of your dream, by any chance?"

She shrugs, raising one shoulder and one brow to follow, "Perhaps. Would you care to find out?"

She is no little girl. She is a woman who makes clear cut decisions.

Please say yes. Please say maybe, at the very least.

"I don't think you're supposed to bathe with your clothes still on."

"You're right." The redhead moves her hands to her thighs then, running them down the sides of the stockings and shoving them down her long legs simultaneously. She kicks them aside with confidence and reaches beneath her shift to tug on the edge of her small-clothes. With the smallest of deep breaths, she pulls them down and feels her cheeks radiate beneath his stare. "Satisfied, wolf?"

"I believe you've forgotten something."

"I believe I was expecting you to help me. It unfastens down the back, you see." She could slip it off, or tug it over her head. But why have a dog, or a wolf, and bark?

"Aye." He rasps, moving behind her with ease and gripping her hips in his hands.

She gasps at the feel of his flesh bruising her skin, but she says nothing, instead holding her breath as he sweeps her hair to one side and pops open the one button at the back of her shift.

Quickly forcing her arms through the cloth, her entire body reacts, coats itself in goosebumps when she is exposed to the still tepid air. Her cheeks flush and she glances down at her hardening nipples in the cool air. Oh.

Her gaze shifts lower, down to her legs where she feels the smallest of tingling sensations running up her calves to the space between her thighs. She can feel his eyes on her back, down her body.

"Are you getting in or were you waiting for me to do that for you, too?"

Is he teasing her again, just as he had done when she had made a show two days earlier? Was he only faking interest in her to rattle her cage and amuse his lonesome self?

She steps, one foot after the other, into the tub and dunks herself down into the chilly water. It pebbles her nipples, makes her knees sting. She has never been naked in front of anyone aside from on the day she was born, safe for Mother and Arya. But they are women, and family.

This man is a stranger, though not nearly strange enough.

She gasps when he drops a small bar of soap down in to the water, the impact making the water splash up onto her dry skin. Only half full, she runs wet hands up her arms and chest to cover herself in water. But her back is out of bounds and Mother is not around to lend a hand.

"You'll have to wash me."

She pulls her knees up to her chest, covering her naked breasts and pressing the side of her face into her knees. She holds out the wet bar of soap and waits for him to grab it before she wraps her arms around her legs.

Emitting a gasp when the cold water runs down her back, she shifts in her position, making herself comfortable when he runs his hand down her back, coating her skin in the cool liquid. Jon runs the soap between his hands, lathering up his palms before placing them on her shoulder-blades almost tentatively, fingers pressing deep into her sore flesh.

She tries to hold back the softest of moans when he reaches her shoulders, reaches the patch of skin between her neck and arms and runs his hands back and forth, almost massaging her frame. The soap soaks into her skin and she closes her eyes at the sensation, enjoying the feel of his hands on her.

"Satisfied, lamb?"

Call me Sansa again. Please.

"Lower."

He smooths his hands down her back, thumbs tracing her spin as he moves, and she spots him knelt at the side of the tub from the corner of her eyes.

One hand leaves her skin while the other traces down her back, past the break of water, leaving patterns of comfort against her skin. He stops when he reaches the top of her bottom, "More?"

Instead of answering him directly, she grabs a hold of his free hand, the one resting on the side of the basin, and forces it below the water, down between her legs.

With a steady breath, she looks up at him, head held high and lips straight, the face of deadly determination. "Here."

"Sansa."

"There." She confirms, keeping her grip tight around his wrist, waiting for him to move, to do something. "Reach between my legs and wash me there." She raises a brow, challenging him.

But he does so without a fight, plunging his hand down between her thighs, the skin tight where she rubs them together in anticipation.

He forces her legs apart, sets his hand over her own personal no man's land. "Like that?"

"Almost." She closes her eyes when he suddenly shifts, changing his entire position and reaching behind her back to rest his other hand on the opposite side of the tub. His hand in her lap trails her delicate flesh, finding her swollen lips beneath the water and running his middle finger back and forth over her folds.

"Like this?"

She nods, lets a small moan escape past her lips when he slips his finger past her folds, his forefinger and thumb pinching at and smoothing over her hot nub. She feels a heat coiling in her low of her belly as he continues, sets something off inside her when a second digit slides into her heat, and he runs his thumb in calming circular motions against her centre, building up the sense of uneasiness she feels. "Oh."

"You like that?"

"Yes." She breathes out, dropping her head forward and letting her long hair graze his arm, the cloth of his tunic wet from the water. She clutches at his forearm then, her fingers almost tearing at the material when he palms her bundle of nerves, removing his fingers from her crevice and using the base of his fingers to trace those soothing rhythmic patterns against her swollen lips.

The grip on his arm tightens as her legs do, her thighs almost crushing his hand rubbing dangerously, vigorously fast circles against her centre.

She feels the muscles in her neck contract when something new and unfamiliar hits her, around her bottom but shooting through her whole body. It's a new feeling, and her toes curl in the water, her feet and legs outstretched as her thighs tighten, clasping around him, stopping him from continuing. He doesn't need to. She moans into the back of her hand wrapped around his arm, teeth grazing her own flesh.

It's a gentle sound and he can only grin, watching as her back arches inward and she mumbles something beneath her breath when the feeling has washed over her.

She lets his arm go then, and he removes it from the water entirely to wrap his hand around the back of her neck, fingers curling in her damp hair.

She leans forward, trying to capture his mouth with her own, until he pulls away, eyes dark and voice low. "Was that in your dream?"

"No."

He gives her a knowing smile, and she feels the overwhelming desire to slap the smug look right off his face. But before she can even reach for him, he's pulling her head forward, toward his own, bringing his lips against her own hungrily.

Sansa lets out a small gasp when he only just glides his tongue past her lips, and then cruelly pulls away.

"That wasn't very fair."

"Bathe. And then we'll see if I'm feeling generous."


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than last time, and it took longer to update because as you can probably tell I've started other stories too and I wanna balance out posting between them all. This is keeping up with the smut, btw, so hopefully it was worth the wait. And thank you for all the kind words! They really mean a lot, and I'm always happy to hear that people like my writing! :) So, enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The fire burning before them has been holding her attention for some time now, the embers flickering and the ashes delicately falling to the ground. It is a sight she hadn’t thought herself to be missing; warmth radiating through a home as people sleep.

She isn’t sleeping, however. Her tired body cannot seem to sync up with her mind, and so she is wide awake and dreaming, with brief flashes of unlikely situations occupying her thoughts.

The wheels on her train of thought are turning, spinning, running full steam ahead and refusing to stop. She misses her family dearly, but she also wants to stay here and build one of her own making. She wants her freedom, but the ludicrous idea of wrapping herself in chains around Jon’s frame is deadly appealing.

He has been sleeping for a good hour now, or perhaps it has been two. Sansa isn’t sure, unable and unwilling to keep track of time. If the day ends, then a new one begins and she is one step closer to losing him.

It’s rather silly, she thinks, this fascination she has developed with him. Childish. Foolish. It isn’t wise to see a kind stranger as a possible love. It isn’t wise to befriend strangers in the first place, Mother always told her.

But she had gone and done just that. She had met a stranger, and kissed a man, and allowed a lover to touch her intimately.

That’s what he is to her now; a lover. Her first. Her only, if she had any say in the matter.

He, with the dark hair and somber eyes, has ruined her. And she is more than comfortable with this realisation. She doesn’t regret letting him in so closely, so unguarded.

Her one and only distress lies in the very haunting possibility that he may toss her feelings aside once she finds what she seeks. There is no guarantee he is, will be, as enamoured with her as she is with him. There is no guarantee he even finds her alluring. He may be playing with her.

Reaching down from her rocking chair, she carefully picks up a freshly chopped piece of log between both hands and tosses it onto the roaring fire. The cracking soothes her nerves and she sighs, moving to scratch behind the wolf’s ear, lay resting at her feet.

Ghost is heavy, all fur and fat and fed. He shifts, moves his head from one side to the other, nose pressing against her stockings. She isn’t even sure how he got in. Maybe he found another way through.

She had redressed after washing, pulling up her stockings and small clothes, covering herself with Jon’s abandoned cloak. Mother always said it was better to wear less when indoors, and clothe yourself properly before heading outdoors. So, she had followed this advice, and opted for the bare minimum, a settlement between modesty and indecency.

He hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t brought it up. Jon had only made them food with what lay in the cabin’s cupboards and what he hunted for ten minutes outside. Spiced squirrel and bread had never been so delicious.

He had gone to sleep after that, all nourished and pleased with himself. He prided himself on accomplishing jobs, she noted. So, he rests in the clothed chair beside hers, legs outstretched and arms flung over the sides.

She doesn’t understand how one person could ever look so melancholic in their sleep. Even resting, he broods; creased forehead and knitted brows and pouting lips.

She had stared at him for a while, once her false snore had convinced him of her dreaming state and his eyes had drifted to a close.

Pulling the sides of his cloak tighter around her, Sansa curls her legs up beneath her body, sitting cross-legged and swaying the rocking chair back and forth, finding comfort in its creak.

Her hands fall to her lap, pulling on the tops of her stockings so they cover that extra inch of thigh skin.

Gooseflesh covers her creamy skin when her left hand rises a little higher, experimentally tucking itself beneath the band of her small clothes and sliding between her parted legs. She stills, unsure of her next move.

Staring across at the dancing flames of the fire, she places her hand flat against her smooth flesh, oddly enjoying the nervous chill that shoots up her spine.

Instead of recoiling, she presses, applies pressure with her fingers against her wound until something hits her, a foreign sensation making her legs twitch when her splayed fingers slip a fraction lower and drag her flesh upwards.

She does this again, only curving her wrist as she reaches the top and creating a circular motion with her hand. She does this again, and again, until it becomes almost routine and her middle finger slips past the folds of her lips much like Jon’s had done earlier.

It’s strange, bizarre, newly familiar. But she likes it, and she quite enjoys the way she has to hold herself from breathing too shallowly. If she moans too loudly, she will wake him. And while there is something rather exciting at the prospect of being caught with her hand between her thighs, she knows she will not be able to face him from shame.

He wouldn’t mock her, only tease her. She knows this. But her excitement is building, and she wants to appreciate it in its entirety, and his charming grin will only add to her humiliation.

With only the dim light of the fire illuminating the room, it becomes increasingly easier to pretend that she is dreaming, acting in a haze of fatigue rather than lust. It helps her conscious. Sansa leans back, damp hair pressing into the crease of the chair as her eyes close. She can sense the heat radiating from the burning logs onto her body, can see the amber flames swaying in the dark behind her lids, can feel an awfully delicious craving rise from the put of her stomach.

It’s as though something is missing from her life, something is very close to being hers yet she is still unable to grasp it, to wrap her fingers around its width and call her own.

The chair creaks, rocks steadily until she drops one long leg and caresses the floor with her toes, curling them until she can stop the movement of the chair.

Her grip holds uneasily, her free hand wrapping around the sides of the cape at her shoulders, bunching it up at her chest, sheltering her bare breasts from the fire’s heat beneath the rugged material.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Her thighs clench then, muscles contracting at the sound of the man’s voice. Oh. Sansa is unable to move, her eyes still closed, her lips parted in devastation. Damn him.

“I thought you were sleeping.” She reasons in a small voice, through parted bruised lips. She can still feel his burn.

“Isn’t that a funny thing? I thought you were doing the same.” She can hear the humour in his voice, barely hidden behind his husky tone.

“How long have you been awake?”

“As long as you want me to have been.”

Sansa swallows a breath, takes only one moment to gather her thoughts before she slips her hand from her lap, ignoring the withdrawn burn that follows. Her eyes flicker open to meet his, his body peering over hers from above.

He’s closer than she had thought him to be upon hearing his voice, stood behind the chair, stood behind her. She hadn’t even heard him move. Though her attention had been directed elsewhere, she reminds herself with another gulp.

Jon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch when she straightens herself up and licks her lips, lowering her gaze to the floor.

“This is your fault. You started this.”

“I also remember finishing it.”

“You said you would be generous, too.” Sansa lifts her head, focuses on him and him alone, “You haven’t touched me since.”

Jon sighs, blinking and avoiding her stare with a look to the fire, “Forgive me if I can refrain from touching you. It has only been some hours, at best.” He licks his lips, broods, unknowingly annoys her, “I hadn’t realised you were so depraved.”

“I am not depraved. I’m not some monstrous whore.”

“Cravenly so, seen as you won’t admit your need.” He continues on, ignoring her refusal of his plaint. His hands curl around the top of the chair, harshly pulling on it until her foot lifts on the ground and she sits back, leaning towards him on the crooked chair. “You are depraved and you expect me to satisfy your deprivation.”

Sansa grits her teeth, unwilling to shift her gaze from his own, “Seems to me I was satisfying my own needs.”

“You mean to tell me that you weren’t imagining me down there?” He grins, just briefly, and then his faint trace of a smile drops. His face darkens again, “I find that rather hard to believe seen as you have no other experience.”

“What makes you think I need experience in order to imagine?” The young woman lifts a brow curiously, edging him on, “Wicked stories are the work of imagination, are they not?”

“Have you read many of these wicked stories?”

“One or two.” She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t tell him of how she stole some of her mother’s books one day and read them beneath her furs. “Not many. But they’re wicked, and wickedness relies on imagination.”

“If that’s true then just where do you think the author of such tales found his muse? You can only imagine after reading, experiencing. You could only have been doing what you were doing because someone else had done it before you, because someone else did it to someone else and wrote about it.”

He is challenging her, she knows, and Sansa holds back a groan. She wants to give up, to concede. He’s right. He’s always right about such things, things she cannot possibly share an opinion on.

“Say, you could write your own wicked tales now.”

“That would mean you were my muse.”

“And that would mean you admitting it was the thought of me between your curious legs that had you acting on your depravity.”

“And what if it was?”

“If it was me between your legs that had you all flushed and sweating, or if it was your depravity you were acting on and not your curiosity?”

“Do they not go hand in hand? Am I not depraved because I’m curiously innocent yet desperate to experience, because I have been deprived of such discoveries?”

“Aye.” He nods once, shifts his gaze from her blue eyes to her red lips for the smallest of moments, “But your appetite for discovery is relying on me acting as your canvas.”

“Are you not reliable?”

“Aye, I am.” He mutters, voice hoarse.

The redhead moves, sits sideways and stares up at him, dropping her hands to her lap. “Will you not be my canvas?”

Jon leans down, face dangerously close to her own, breath harsh against her ear. “You’re the virgin, lamb. I think the canvas is you.”

Before she can speak, she finds herself facing the flames again, his warm hand wrapped around her throat. The sleeve of his tunic rubs against her bare shoulder, his cloak fallen from the right side of her chest. His thumb presses against her pulse point, his fingers rough against her rosy skin.

Her cheeks redden when his hand slides from her neck to her jaw, forcing her to sit with her back to him and her gaze directed up at him. It tightens, his calloused palm around her blushing flesh, but she does not mind. If she did, she would protest and he would let her.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“Would you like me to?”

He wouldn’t hurt her, not truly, not if she didn’t want it, not if she didn’t ask with words. He is not brutish, cruel. He is not who she thinks him to be. He is lonelier than she thinks, softer than she imagines.

But he won’t tell her any of this until she inquires.

It will damage this view she has of him, this tale of his wolfish nature she has convinced herself of.

“Only a little.”

“What do you want me to do?”

She can’t find it in herself to speak, to voice her strange desires. So, instead, she grabs his forearm and pushes, pulls, forcing the hand around her throat to tighten and affect her steady breaths.

She doesn’t know where it comes from, this sudden overwhelming desire to feel constricted and tight and unable to move.

His grip around her throat doesn’t tighten, he won’t let it, but the ball of his hand pushes against her muscles and she licks her lips. Jon only stares down at her, dark eyes blank, in some kind of awe of her awakening.

“Kiss me.”

“Where?”

Her hand loosens, knuckles white and tired, allowing his arm to drop from her neck, resting instead on the side of the chair.

He leans over the back of the seat, goes in to kiss her damp lips - her head tilted all the way back to watch him - until her breath meets his and she voices, “Anywhere.”

Her cheek is first, her right then her left. Then her nose, then her chin. He cannot reach lower, so instead he moves his lips up to her own. They part, but she keeps her tongue held back and refuses to sync up with him, sink into him.

It’s only when he lets go of the chair, and lets it tip so far forward that she almost falls from it, that she realises he is set on playing her game and winning.

Sansa stands, pulling on the cloak so the loose sides hang over her shoulders and chest softly. She gulps, retains her position in front of the fire. Ghost has disappeared, no longer at her feet. “Here.”

She backs away when Jon stalks toward her, dark eyes looming in the firelight. He strides, reaches her in a second, and walks her back until she collides with the wall of the fireplace and almost traps his cloak in an open flame.

“Where do you want me?”

She dabs a finger at her shoulder, pushing the heavy material aside until her shoulder is bared. Her chest remains covered, by cloth and his body when he stands against her. He is all muscle and thickness, all strength where she is feeble bone. She wants some of him, some of his power. He doesn’t tower over her, doesn’t shadow her.

But his presence is heavy and she tosses her head back gently against the wall when he lowers his face to her shoulder. His pink lips press against her skin, hungry where she is sweaty.

He kisses the skin there, drags his teeth along her collarbone when she taps her finger against her chest once, twice, showing him where she wants his kiss next. He follows, kisses, sucks with puckered lips. She narrowly stops a throaty moan, stops herself from touching him directly, from wrapping her arms around his frame.

She is wanton, depraved. She tells herself this when one hand slips to her abdomen and the other rises beside her head.

“Here?”

He’s on his knees before she can comprehend what is happening, wrapping bruised fingers around her waist and applying small kisses down her chest, between her breasts down to her stomach. She holds back a giggle, bites back a smirk.

“Here?”

She quickly comes to her senses when he asks his question again, biting her stomach, upper teeth clawing at her belly button. She wants to nod, wants to tell him to stay there. But her voice evades her and she cannot speak, too entranced by the scratch of his beard against her shaky skin, too enchanted by his curled hair tickling her milky flesh.

“Where do you want me to kiss you?”

“Anywhere you like.”

That is dangerous. That is too much.

She realises as much when he complies, accepts her offer and lowers himself down to her lap, fingers curling down the sides of her clothing. They fall gracelessly, in a flash of an instant, and Sansa cannot find it in herself to protest when he drags her forward by the hips until his nose brushes against her bundle of nerves.

“Gods.”

His breath is hot against her sweet skin, and she has only one moment to bask in the pleasure of his warmth before his tongue is pressed flat against her flesh and she is jumping back in surprise.

He expects her to stop him, to grab him by the hair and push him away from her. But she doesn’t. Instead, she grabs his disarrayed curls and tugs, upwards and inward, encouraging him when he moves his right hand to her thighs and forces her legs apart.

She feels alight, half positive the fire has caught onto her skin and is slowly burning her apart. But the feeling comes from inside, from somewhere between her breasts and her knees. She isn’t sure how to react, how to cry or where to even hold him. He is kissing, nipping, licking at her. He looks at her sometimes, when his damned lips are curled around her sickly sweet softness and he is suckling.

“Oh.”

It’s all she can voice, all she can manage as he laps and laps and dares her to come apart beneath his mouth. She wants what he has to offer, what he has to give her. She wants to be consumed by whatever it is, to be so overwhelmed she can no longer find her way back down to their reality. It’s a high, a thrilling contagion she is more than willing to contract.

“Was that what you wanted?”

He stops before she has broken, before she has reached that point of no return. She wants to feel her body tire, her limbs ache. She wants what is foreign to her.

Fisting his hair between her fingers, she glances down at him, all dark and brooding from the firelight and the glow of her clothed silky thighs.

“Do it again, wolf.”

He does just so, accepts and refuses to refrain, unwilling to pull away again until her knees knock at his shoulders and she is arching away from the wall.

His fingers leave her lips, parted now only by his tongue, and they trace up her stomach until he reaches her breasts. She moans when his thumb sweeps across her nipple, sensitive and pebbled. She holds his hand in her grasp, keeps his calloused skin over her fragile skin.

Her fist tightens over his own when she reaches her peak, all dry lips and breathy sobs. There are tears in her eyes when he takes his final few licks, swiping his tongue up her folds, over her rupture point. She refuses to let him go until she has finished, until she has felt moisture seep from her folds onto his lips.

“Fuck.”

She waits until he has risen before speaking, until her legs are steadying and she can once again hold herself up. His hand remains on her breast, his free hand rising to meet the one beside her head. His fingers intertwine with hers, all sweat and sweetness.

“What was…” Sansa gulps, closing her eyes when he presses his mouth against the base of her neck, softly, kissing his way up to her own lips. They part, waiting and wanton, but he does not comply.

“I believe I fucked you with my tongue.” He finishes for her, no trace of a smirk or tease on his face. He only stares, kisses, breathes.

“Yes.” She nods, accepts. She won’t challenge that. “What a wonderful tongue you have, wolf.”

He kisses her once, and she can taste herself on his lips, all sickness and sticky honey.

“All the better to eat you with, my dear.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, finally time for some Jon backstory. Also, some quasi-smut and a shit load of dialogue that took me five hours to perfect. It flows, it's effortless, and it comes full circle. It's my favourite kind, and I'm proud. The next chapter features that one thing that's been coming since the very beginning - d'uh - and a few more hounds so expect drama. But, in the meantime, enjoy this while you can because it's gonna end with the tenth chapter. You're welcome for that spoiler! ;) Anyway, read and enjoy, and let me know what you think because I seriously love the response to this piece!

The smell of burnt heir somehow manages to captivate Sansa’s senses, and she can no longer wait for their supper.

He’d suggested she redress after their encounter, and she had. He’d gone out the back of the cabin to fetch something for dining on then, and reemerged some dozen minutes later with a dead animal and some untouched leaves.

She’d scoped out some old bread from one of the dingy cupboards above the rusty old sink, and had forced it onto a stick to wave above the fire keeping them warm.

It hadn’t taken long to cook the heir. Peeled quickly and cut up finely, it looked surprisingly delicious.

The food is barely put down on the table before Sansa is tucking into it, all bared hands and hungry mouthed.

She shoulders off her cloak and rests her elbows on the edge of the table as she divulges on the meat. The grilled bread she had found and prepared proves a worthy side.

It is no meal Granny would ever have cooked - she preferred her potatoes and vegetables - but it will suffice until they reach her.

When they’re all done, and Sansa is munching down on her last piece of stale loaf, she mumbles, “I hadn’t realised I was so hungry.”

“You worked up an appetite.” Jon suggests, and then he gets up and wipes the table with one old rag from off the side of the sink and Sansa is finished.

She wonders how cold he must feel, dressed in only his breeches and boots and shirt. It’s a dark look, but she admires it with girlish longing. Black and brooding and black.

He goes to sit back by the fire then, and he’s pulling on the untied strings at the waist of his breeches when she approaches him.

“Why do you brood so often?”

“Melancholy, Sansa.” He speaks her name and she finds it strange, odd to hear him usher those five letters rather than the four of his affectionate pet name. “I’ve been this way for years.”

“Why?” Curiosity has gotten the better of her. Well, curiosity and a few sips of whatever had been in that old bottle of ale beside the bed.

He doesn’t look sure of himself, doesn’t look certain that he should tell her of whatever is haunting him at night, keeping him up for countless hours. But then his face changes, and he clears his throat, and he husks,

“I had a wife, once.” His gaze is set on the fire, brown eyes somehow turning black despite the light from the flames.

She hadn’t expected such a revelation, hadn’t prepared herself for him to be so forthcoming. He holds back, usually, doesn’t offer insight into who he really, truly is.

“Oh.” It comes out as a question, as though she is stunned and confused yet curious all at once. Suddenly her face grows warm and her cheeks flush from the overwhelming heat.

“Aye. A wife I had, and a wife I lost.”

A wife is a woman, is someone worthy of love and intimacy.

She is but a child to him then, surely, nothing more than a young runaway searching for freedom and ignoring her mothers’ cries. What does she know of love and loyalty and loss? What could she possibly know of the bond between a man and his wife, a lover and his muse?

“Was she lovely?”

It’s a silly question, Sansa thinks. Of course, she had been lovely. Of course, because this man had married her and this man deserved a loving woman.

“She was lethal.”

“Lethal?”

Jon nods once, twice, and then he turns his head until he is looking at her and a frown adorns his face. “Not you.”

Sansa is swept by his words then, though she isn’t sure if he had meant them kindly or with disgust.

Not you, because I wish she were here with me in your place.

Not you, because now that I have met you, I fear she will no longer hold my heart.

She has never felt so lonely, so envious of this lost woman’s lasting mark on him.

“Does that make me lovely?”

“If you want it to.”

He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t delve deep into his soul and spurt out screaming words. He doesn’t share, not too much, only little. He doesn’t let her in, never too closely at least, never in the way she wants to be welcomed.

“How did she die?”

Jon wipes the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand, and then he pulls his gloves on, taking the time to reflect on her question.

She understands his trepidation, his unwillingness to share.

How could she not? She is little more than a stranger to him. She is nothing more than a body keeping him company and a mind keeping his own at ease. No matter where she has let him lay his mouth or press his hands, she is a stranger to him, and he is to her, too.

“A villager came looking for Ghost.” He stops, shoots her the smallest of glances before he ducks low and pries out his jerkin from beneath the chair.

“Armed?”

“And ready to fire at whatever or whoever happened upon his path.”

“And your wife-”

“Ygritte,” Jon corrects, informs her, “came out in a fury when she heard him shouting for the wolf. There was no controlling her, calming her. Never had been.”

Sansa can only nod, try to retain his gaze and offer her condolences in one stare. She cannot imagine such a scene, such a crime. It’s a pity, truly. He hadn’t deserved to lose someone he loved like that; carelessly and cruelly.

“And she knew the man who lived here?”

“A friend. Tall and bearded. He was like a brother to her, or a father. I was never sure which was more fitting.” He frowns, shifts those greying brown eyes from her face down to his body, watching as his own fingers fiddle and fondle with the fastenings of his clothes. “He went searching for her, never came back.”

“You mean…”

“Aye. I never saw her, only the pool of liquid blood where Ghost licked and the tracks in the dirt. It snowed straight after, covered the bloody path.”

She doesn’t question why Ghost hadn’t followed, searched after his dying wife and the murderer from the village. He’s a hunted wolf; the pray instead of the hunter.

“I gave up. After two moons came and went, and I wasted too much time and effort. She was gone, and I don’t think I must have loved her all that much. How could I have given up so easily?”

“Perhaps you decided to grieve and move on, to accept her fate?”

Sansa drops to her knees, running her hands down her thighs, resting them on her covered knees. The tops of her feet are cold on the floor, but the flames from the fire keep her body warm.

She crawls over to Jon, lifts a hand to rest it on his right knee and she smiles faintly, “Perhaps there is a chance she is still alive.”

“And she never came home to me?”

“Would you have wanted her to?”

He must have loved her, surely, for he married her. And Sansa is fairly certain nobody could have ever coerced him into doing something he hadn’t wanted in the first place. He must have loved her, surely, for he married her and settled for a loving life of isolation.

“No.”

Or maybe it had been eventual desolation he’d sought, wanted upon marrying.

“I made peace with her fate, with my own fate.”

She doesn’t move voluntarily, doesn’t flinch at all when he cups her cheek and draws her face closer to his. Her knees shift and her back straightens and she is facing him directly. It aches, the sweltering heat of the fire dancing off of her back, almost burning her skin through her clothes.

“Have you made peace with your fate?”

“I might, if only I knew my fate.”

_The night is dark, Stark girl. But the flames have spoken and what you seek may not be what you think. You’ll find him, Stark girl. And he will guide you._

With a gulp, Sansa pulls her face away, pressing her hand over his own.

“Are you my fate?”

“I might be, aye.” He removes his hand then, but his face leans and his forehead presses against hers and she can feel his breath against her lips. “But it wouldn’t be a very pretty ending for you.”

“Oddly, I happen to find you very pretty, wolf.” She grins, letting her top teeth scrape her bottom lip as it curls.

“You aren’t a lamb after all, are you?” He murmurs quietly, eyes on her neck and voice hushed dangerously low. She admires his accent, the northern gruff, and blushes when his hands both encase her face. His nose brushes along her own, all skin and warmth and Sansa holds her breath.

“Am I a wolf, too?”

“Would you like to be?”

“What would it require?”

It’s symbolical, metaphorical. Surely no biting will be necessary. At least, not too much biting.

“A mating.”

“Would you make me howl?”

“I would make you scream.”

“Would it hurt?”

“For a little while,” he frowns again, pulls away a fraction of an inch, “and then it wouldn’t. And you would be begging for more.”

Sansa ducks her head, lets her nose graze his chin and her hair fall down his half-bared chest. “How would I beg? How would you make me beg?”

“With my mouth. With my lips on your very soft skin.” One hand slips to her hair, and she feels the leather twist as he pulls on her loose braid. It hurts a little bit, but she simply bites her lip and waits for more.

It’s vicious, this game he’s playing, this game she started.

“With my very pretty face between your soaking wet thighs.”

It’s a deadly game, sick even.

“Would I beg because I’m wet?”

“You would beg because you’re innocently asking to be fucked, and I would be very slowly complying.”

“But you could comply faster, couldn’t you?” She moves onto her knees properly, drops her hands down his chest so her fingers toy with the bottom of his open jerkin. “You could fuck me fast.”

“I could, and I might. But not at first.”

“What would you do at first?”

“Lay you out on my table and enjoy my meal.”

“Will you spread my legs?”

“I would. And you’d keep them spread open for me or I’d punish you.”

Face flushed, Sansa briskly moves until she is stood on both feet, dress still parted at her chest where she has foregone tying it, and full clothes suddenly much too heavy. She wants to be rid of them, to be free of her constraints and bared and with him.

But they have little time before they have to move, and she isn’t sure this fantasy will ever become reality. So she will bask in its existence, in this imaginary affair, and she will enjoy the wicked temptation.

She does not know their fate, much less her very own.

Tossing one leg over his lap, she pushes her palms down on his shoulders until she straddles his waist, dress gathering in his lap, heat over heat, flushed skin radiating through her clothes.

She shifts his free hand so it rests on her hip for a moment, and then drags it up until he is cupping her right breast, the patch of skin between his thumb and forefinger encasing the mound.

“How would you punish me, if I closed my legs and refused you?”

“If you refuse me, I won’t punish you. If you refuse me, it isn’t my place to demand anything.”

With only the slightest of scowls, Sansa grips his wrist tighter, digging her nails into his shoulder with her other hand. “How would you punish me, if I closed my legs and teased you?”

Jon smiles at that, but she cannot decide if it’s more of a smirk. His upper lip curls and his teeth bare as he lowers his head to base of her neck, lips at her covered collarbone. “That depends on how you tease me.”

She realises he is playing this game better than her, and suddenly she feels a little out of her element. Until she remembers that he has been encouraging her to speak freely and confess her deadliest, ugliest desires to him since they met only some days ago.

“I would make you watch.” She licks her lips, pushes a strand of falling red hair behind her ear when his hand slips from her breast to her backside, taking his time to trace her curved waist.

He grips one cheek in his hand, taps her fleshy backside a little too roughly with one smack, her flesh moulding in his hand.

“I would make you watch as I kept my legs closed and slid my hands between my thighs. It would be so tight, too. I would make you watch as I slipped one finger inside and pressed others against my centre. But you wouldn’t see much. You’d only hear me. Because the space between my legs would be oh, so tight, and I’d be whispering your name because it’d be your face I was imagining.”

“My very pretty face?”

It’s hot against her dress, his voice, and Sansa sniffles, feels a fever from the rising heat of the room coming along. Mother would make her wrap up beneath the covers, and she’d make her a hearty supper to feed off the sickness.

“Your very pretty face, wolf. Yes. Your very pretty face forced ever so tightly between my soaking wet thighs. Your very hungry tongue lapping at my very juicy peach.”

“Would you scream?”

“I’d howl. Like a wolf, like you’d want me to. I howl when I hit my peak and leak my sticky sweetness all over your table. But I scream when you grab my ankle and pull me forward and lick at me like a cat drinks its milk.”

There’s a smack again, against her bottom, and Sansa almost jumps forward at the surprise. It’s rough, but not harsh, and she finds it alarmingly arousing.

What is happening to her? This man is no boy, is a stranger, is a widower with only a wolf as a companion. This man is little more than a ploy in the twisted game of chess she has been playing in her head.

She hates this realisation, hates herself for her handling of him. He is harmless, seemingly, and she is using him for her own enjoyment.

But he knows this, and he is letting her do it anyway.

“You sully my table, do ‘ya?” He appears to grin, again, but Sansa barely has a moment to witness his expression before he is pulling her by the hair and dress, and forcing her sideways over his lap. Her knees bend, and suddenly she feels as bare as she had wanted.

“I do. I ruin your table. You’ll never be able to eat off of it again. You’ll have to burn it.” The bottom of her chin is pressed against the side of his leg, her hands dropped onto the floor, her back arched and her toes curled.

“I can’t burn it.” She can feel his hands run up her legs, over the backs of her knees and under the material of her wool gown.

He stops his left hand on her lower back, holds her steady as he pulls on the edge of her creased dress with his right hand. It pools around her waist, all crinkled material and rugged edges.

It scrapes, when he forces it up over her backside, fast and rough and hungrily. “It can’t be burnt because I’m going to fuck you on it.”

“Fast?”

“Slow.”

“That isn’t fucking then.”

“And what would you know of it?” Sansa glances over her shoulder to look at him, to note the almost boyish frown on his face.

He doesn’t grimace, doesn’t appear displeased, however, and she grins devilishly, and he spanks her again.

“I’ve dreamt it. These woods made me dream it.” She isn’t sure the woods are working any magic anymore, isn’t sure they ever were. Perhaps it had been her all along; thirsty and lonely and innocently curious.

“You mean to say it’s the Winter Woods that have led you to be so wanton?”

“Perhaps I was always wanton. Just unwilling to act on said immodesty because I couldn’t find a suitable partner.”

“And I’m a suitable partner, am I?”

“The Woods seem to think so.” These woods and that witch and my gut feeling.

He smacks her again, and she can feel the burn his gloved hand leaves behind. It would be soft, smoother without the leather restriction, she proposes, and Jon agrees.

They will have to leave soon, and they will eventually have to redress completely.

“Trees don’t speak, Sansa. They don’t think or feel. Only you and I do.” It’s truthful, and honest, and she wants to hate him for it; for reminding her of her feelings and struggles.

She knows this is wrong, strange, but she had been choosing to ignore the fact for the sake of her curiosity.

“You and I also kiss and touch and breathe each other in. You and I also speak, and don’t speak, and settle for these predicaments.” She raises a thin eyebrow before lowering her gaze to the ground again, feeling all blood rush to her face as she bends back over his lap and pushes her bottom upwards. “You and I also have places to be and things to do, and each other to fuck into oblivion. Is it so wrong of me to imagine that tree talk and snow whispers? Is it so terribly sadistic of me to hope that one day soon you won’t just talk of loving me, but actually love me?”

She reaches back and grabs his wrist, holds his hands against her cheek and smoothes circles with the ball of his hand.

“Touch me here, and touch me there.” She enunciates and swallows a breath, “Touch me, or fuck me, or something, because you have made me feel something and I want to burn it to memory.”

“I never spoke of loving you.” When her grip around his wrist loosens, Jon slips his hand beneath the edge of her small clothes, palm tickling her cheeks as his middle finger seeks her out.

“You spoke of fucking me.”

“You wanted me to.”

“Would you love me if I asked you to?”

He doesn’t reply at first, only drags his fingers against her mound and waits for her to push against him and swell at his fingertips. “No.”

“That’s a shame.” Sansa gulps, letting her eyes close as she feels tears begin to mount behind her lashes. It’s unspoken of, what she feels, how she feels. “Quite a pity.”

“It is, aye.” He grunts, trails his hand on her back to her neck, wrapping his palm around the back of her neck, fingers intertwining with her unbrushed strands of hair. “What a pity that you love me and cannot tell if I love you back.”

He runs his fingers up and down her centre, creating friction against her flesh, waiting for her to moan out the gentlest of cries past her pink lips. Her cheeks flush, match her lower pair, and he pulls at the hair of her neck, forcing her up to look at him.

He has her sussed out. He has played her game, and won.

The young woman remains with closed eyes as he nears her, breath dancing along her slightly parted lips. It’s tense and she waits with heavy pants for him to kiss or caress her.

He does neither, though, only slips a finger inside of her for the briefest of seconds before he retracts his hand from her clothes and rests it on her lap.

“I barely touched you.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” She nods once, sighs a regretful breath of musty air. “And I’m drenched.”

“It must be because you love me so.”

“Why do you assume I love you?”

“Because you act as my wife once did.”

“Perhaps your wife never loved you then.”

Forcing herself to stand and withdraw from him, Sansa shrugs off his hands and attempts the lightest of smiles.

“She did. It was me who was never sure of my feelings.”

He doesn’t oppose to her leaving his lap, to her standing and tying her dress shut and fiddling with her small clothes so they fit right into place. She looks at him amicably, doesn’t show any signs of ennui or irritation. Perhaps the game has not ended after all. Perhaps he has not won and she still has a chance of regaining control.

Jon follows her lead, brushes off his breeches before sliding his gloves back over his hands and finally pulling his jerkin closed.

“If you were never sure of your feelings then how come you’re so melancholy over her loss?”

“Widower’s guilt?” He tries, offers as a solution.

Jon walks back over to their belongings then, shoving fresh things into her basket, and rummaging through it for that strange bottle. He unwinds the cap and takes the smallest of sips, pulling a face at the taste.

Sansa has not had any, does not know of its contents. She frowns, lacing up her boots, when he puts it back into place and slides her basket across the table, basically telling her to hurry.

“I wish we hadn’t wasted so much time.”

“That?” He points his sword over at the fireplace before he sheathes it, where the roaring fire is dying and embers are colouring the dark air. The sky is midnight blue, and it’s safer for them to travel. “I wouldn’t call that a waste of time.”

Unwilling to dance around the matter, Sansa pulls on the string of her cape with a rough tug, and asks, “What would you call it?”

“A realisation.”

She whisks her basket up quickly, forcing the handle down her arm and pulling up the hood of her cape with gloved fingertips. It has been a day in here, but she never wants to leave this place. It’s warm and as lovely as it could be.

But time is fleeting and cruel men are after them, and she needs to get to Granny’s.

She needs to get there because she has told herself as much, but lately her thoughts have been contradictory and she sees no purpose.

She could go home, return to the village and abandon all hope of getting to her grandmother’s house in the deep woods. She could go back to the moderately safe tranquility of her home and pretend she had never left.

But if she does this, goes back instead of forward, returns to normality instead of attempting adventure, she may never forgive herself.

What awaits her, truly, if she goes home without Granny’s aid? A lifetime of loneliness in a caring family.

What awaits her, really, if she goes home without anybody help? A lifetime spent in an unhappy marriage to a madman she despises.

What awaits her, concretely, if she stays with Jon and never leaves his side? A lifetime of uncertainty.

The prospect is frightening, and she cannot tell him this.

“What have you realised?”

That you are unworthy of being loved. That you are unloved. That you are an infection and I need to rid myself of you. That I have been too kind and I should stop. That I am dangerous and shall act on my impulses. That you are a lamb and I am a wolf and we are sick.

“The truth.” His ever permanent frown is clear, and he is trudging out to the back of the cabin as he speaks. “That I am better off alone because you are disruptively wanton.”

“Oh.” She follows, practically runs after him when he leaves through a blocked up back door, kicking it through.

It’s cold, freezing, and snow is falling lightly on them. Ghost is nearby, a few feet ahead, dirtied white fur heavily coated in elegant white snow.

“We’re back to this again, are we?” She marches alongside him with her voice low, hands wrapped around the sides of her cloak to keep it tight and close. “Do you not think we’re talking in riddles, in circles?”

“No.” He mumbles, tone low and heavy. If she didn’t know any better, she would think him angry. But she knows better. And she doesn’t know how this came to be. “I happen to think speaking in short sentences is better for us. Lets fewer feelings spill out, and all that.”

“Fewer feelings? Would that not require you to have feelings in the first place?”

“It might.” He nods once, twice, and then glances at her out of the corner of his eye as she trails beside him, trudging through the snow with downcast eyes. Her face is ivory, her lips clear coral. “Perhaps I do have feelings for you after all.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if you did.” Her inner romantic is screaming; that small part of her that had once wished for a prince and a carriage and a decorated house is shrieking in bliss. And she hates herself for it. It’s silly, foolish.

He is no prince, but a woodsman. There is no carriage, but there is an oversized wolf. He has no decorated house, only a crumbling cabin in the middle of the Winter Woods.

Her inner romantic is a complete and utter fool, Sansa decides once and for all, and she rolls her eyes at her internal struggle. And Jon grins.

“No. I wouldn’t.” He squints, eyes the path up ahead with the faintest of smiles, “Where would be the fun in that?”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm not entirely sure how this one chapter ended up reaching over 11k words, but it did, so... There's that, I guess. I mean, I could have divided it into two separate chapters, but it's all planned out and honestly it wouldn't have worked otherwise. Anyway, yeah. Hopefully it's worth long read (sorry!), because honestly if you've been following this story then it should be worth it... You'll see. So, without further ado... Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

“Do we have much further to walk?”

It feels as though they’ve been travelling for days, when in reality it has probably only been some hours.

There’s no way of keeping track of time, and so Sansa has forged her own functioning clock. Her mind. The sun is setting, fading into the horizon, setting below the tallest of mountains.

They’re elevated, high above the rest of the Woods or the entire village. If she tried hard enough, she could probably spot her locale.

“No.” He voices with a gruff, eyes dark from what she can see. She has been at his side for some time now, having gotten fed up with following his lead.

Yes, he knows the way. Yes, he knows these woods better than she ever could or ever will. But she is the one with a destination to reach and a goal to achieve. She is the one who forced them on this path in the first place; it only make sense that she keep pace with her guide.

The sun is barely visible over the sky’s coral evening light, and Sansa wonders if they will once again be venturing on and forward as night falls.

“How far then?”

“A couple hundred feet, I reckon.”

She feels a shiver run up her spine at the news. Granny is close, as is her fate. Granny will be here, and he will leave me here, and he will leave to never be seen again.

There’s a rising feeling in her gut, clogging up her throat and weighing down her shoulders. It’s hard to carry, tough to swallow. She does not know him, not truly, but she does not wish to leave him.

“Will you stay for supper?”

“Aye, I will. If your Gran would be so kind.” Sansa can tell he tries to smile, tries to force an offering of optimism and glee.

It’s for her benefit, she knows. But his attempt at a grin fails, and her heart is nevertheless softened by his willingness to try.

“Granny would surely invite you in. She does love a handsome man. She’s always told me tales of her younger days.” Sansa blushes, ducks her head, “Besides, you brought me here. She can’t refuse your stay.”

“I won’t be staying, Sansa. Know that.” Jon reminds her pointedly, with a crooked eyebrow shadowing over a blank expression. “I’ll be on my way home as soon as I can.”

“Even still? You haven’t changed your mind? Haven’t had a change of heart?”

“Aye.”

“Yes? You have?”

“No. Aye, I haven’t.” He corrects, repeats himself conclusively.

She understands, and declares with a sigh, “That’s a pity.”

She shrugs, folds her arms over her chest and keeps her eyes focused on the ground they trudge along on, carefully stepping over thick snow-coated roots emerging from the dirt.

He doesn’t talk after that, at least not to continue their conversation. It seems settled, as though the thick dust between them has finally fallen and his plans are concretely laid out in cement.

“We’re here.”

Those are words she has been half-wishing for, half-dreading to hear for days now. It almost seems too easy.

_Granny is here, and so are we, and this is where you leave me._

“Is that your Granny’s house?”

Raising her head, hands clasped around the thick material of the hood of her cloak, Sansa looks up and over at the rustic cabin out in the open area of the woods. There are trees surrounding it, leaves and and branches fallen at the entrance, snow sheltering the exterior of the house.

The rooftop is pure white, all thick and glimmering snowflakes forming a flat mass of snow Sansa craves running her gloved hands through. It would be so refreshing, to hear the crunch of fresh snow crumbling between her fingers.

She pays little attention to Jon or his wolf as she begins to near the cabin, boots breaking in the fresh layer of snow covering the brick path that leads her forward.

There are no candles lit inside, she can tell. Granny always lit candles to keep warm, always had hot flames flickering and a crackling fire burning to keep the heat inside when the winter was blisteringly harsh outside.

She makes it up the path, narrowly avoiding a couple patches of frosted-over cobbles to keep her balance, and knocks on the door. She taps three times, with a gloved fist twitching uneasily.

She cannot decide if she is excited to have reached her destination, to have accomplished what she set out to do, or rather perplexed at the realisation that her journey has reached its conclusion.

“Grandmother?”

Lyarra Stark adores her grandchildren, invites them in with open arms any chance she gets. It isn’t often they get to see her. She lives far away, isolated from her family, and refuses to trade out her treasured house for the Starks’ cramped living situation.

She had once suggested that the girls come live with her, to help her around the house because she was getting old and needed a little assistance from time to time.

Sansa had been eager to agree to the proposal, to get away from home and spend time with her grandmother, and she’d eventually managed to bribe the usually unfazed Arya into joining her.

They’d decided it would be a good idea for them, a chance to bond and learn and grow as women. But Catelyn had disagreed, claimed they needed to stay at home and help their brothers grow up instead. She’d argued that there were more opportunities to mature as young women in the village, surrounding by people and men and a community to learn from.

She hadn’t been wrong, Sansa knows. But her mother’s insistence on her becoming a clever, charming young woman had eventually included forcing an unwilled engagement upon her.

She sometimes wishes she had ran away sooner, sought out her Granny’s council many moons ago.

Her daydreaming eyes flicker open from their momentary daze when some minutes have passed and there has still been no answer at the door. And so, she knocks again, and waits patiently for her Granny’s face to appear behind the creaking old wooden door.

“Sansa.”

Jon is by her side, she senses, feels the ever-present heat from his body radiate onto her own when he breathes beside her. He’s warm, and reassuring, comforting without even knowing it.

“Something isn’t right.”

There’s a hand on her shoulder then, and Jon is pulling her away from the door. He isn’t rough, doesn’t force her backwards; only moves her to the side before taking her place.

He hammers loud against the door with the side of his clenched fist, much unlike the way Sansa had done, his knuckles aching beneath their leather cushion.

The pounding is heavy, the weight of his fist hammering down against the worn wood echoing out past them and through the aches of trees they crossed, and it’s sure to wake even the deepest of sleepers from the numbest of slumbers.

His fist thumps again and again, and one last time when he’s greeted with nothing but silence, the lone cawing of hungry crows answering their persistent thudding.

Sansa has to wrap her hand over his own then, fingers curling dangerously right around his wrist to stop him from splintering the wood and beating down the door.

“Jon.” She voices, and when he grudgingly spins around to face her, his eyes catch sight of her numbing lips and rosy cheeks. “Stop.”

Irresolute, he lowers his fist until she lets go of him, uncurls her pale fingers from the patch of flesh that escapes past the sleeve of his clothes. He doesn’t make much of the gooseflesh running up his arm, coating his arm in shivers; instead choosing to unsheathe his sword and draw it between them, the blade forced between the humid door’s edge and the frame that encases it.

“Move back.”

His shoulders shift once Sansa takes a couple steps backwards down onto the frosty stones, and he steps forward into position, carefully jamming the sharp tip of his long blade in the crevice and wiggling, forcing a shift between the door and its lock.

Sansa doesn’t have a moment to second guess his plan before its working, splinters of battered wood flying down onto Jon’s snowy boots.

The door is open, and her sigh of relief is pitched as she scurries past him, almost running forward until she is inside.

It’s a strange feeling, to be inside Granny’s house with a man who isn’t Father. She’s been coming here since she was but an infant, all weak bones and milk teeth.

But time has passed, and she’s older now, and she thinks that perhaps this overwhelmingly new sensation she’s feeling is only the realisation that she is grown, of her own will and mind.

“Are you sure she’s here?”

Granny never leaves, never ventures out. Granny would die here when the time came, Sansa thinks, and gulps at the thought.

“She’s here.”

The redhead is sure of her answer, though her grandmother’s exact whereabouts escape her completely. She would have woken up at the banging, would have screamed at the beating down of her door.

Jon is kicking the door shut behind him when she finally turns to face him, all doe-eyed and flushed. The warmth of the fire roaring in the living space had heated her body within seconds, and her once cold cheeks are now blazing hot.

He shakes his bag off, sheaths his sword back into place before sliding his belongings down onto a rickety old table by the doorway.

The ceiling in the house is low, lower than Sansa ever remembers it being when she was younger. But then, she was younger, and shorter, and a child. She is no child now.

Copying his action, Sansa sets her basket down on the table, making room for the wicker carrier by carefully shifting his guarded sword to stand by the door on its bladed edge.

Jon is stood by the fire, rubbing bare hands above the embers. His cloak seems to hang heavy on his shoulders, all snow-coated and fitting to his name. His skin glows the colour of snow-dusted rusty steel above the fire, all crystal white and fiery amber. You are Snow, and snow is you.

She thinks she must be ivory herself, all flushed and warm and cold eyed.

“That’s a rather alarming smell.”

She knows what he means, refers to.

There is an overwhelming stench of perished meat lingering in the air, and Sansa cannot remember any such unbearable smell during her childhood.

Perhaps Granny has cooked some dear and forgotten to toss out the scraps. Or mayhap she’d been unsuccessful in finding new food and had settled for a meal of sheer repulsion and desperation.

Sansa heart aches at the thought; Granny eating old rotten meat alone because she cannot hunt fresh food or measly fauna.

“Yes,” she agrees. It’s hard to bear now that it’s been properly pointed out, and the young woman covers her mouth with her palm, pinching her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s coming from the back room.” She points towards the right corner of where they stand.

She remembers Granny’s bedroom being behind the loosely hanging curtain on the left side of the room, and the cramped kitchen residing behind the right.

The living space is sided by those two curtains and the main door, and a third curtain on the wall beside the fireplace. But the third curtain she remembers is now gone, and instead the small doorway is bare to walk through.

Making for the room, she begins to pull on her skirts, gathering the bottom of her robe by her thighs as she heads to relieve herself. It’s been too long, and her body is desperate.

The pot is dirtied, hasn’t been cleaned for a good moon or so, dusted with leaves flown in from the small window by the metal bathtub. She wipes them off hurriedly, wipes the seat with the bottom of her frosted dress, letting the murky snow wipe clean the true dirt. It’ll suffice, and she’ll settle.

When she comes back out of the room, her eyes are immediately drawn to the kitchen’s blind being swept open, Jon in the doorway. He’s quiet, unmoving, one hand wrapped around the knife tucked in his belt.

She makes her up to him, stepping a foot short and placing her hand over his, alerting him of her presence, stopping him from pulling the knife from its guard.

She doesn’t know what he intends to use it for, but she’s quite certain that bloodshed or wood chipping will help no one.

“Found the source of that reeking smell.”

Peering over his shoulder, Sansa claps one hand against the thick material of his cloak to steady herself as she looks ahead. She doesn’t let go of his other hand, doesn’t even think to.

There is a white rabbit on the floor of Granny’s kitchen, split in half from legs to throat. It’s a ghastly sight, made worse by the lack of insides. It’s been ripped apart and used for bits, served as a meal for something, some animal. Granny is kind when killing, when preparing her suppers.

But the rabbit is lay open on the the muddy floor, and there is a large chunk of meat lay at its side. It can’t possibly belong to the small creature, and Sansa bites the insides of her cheeks when she spots the hound rounding the corner before them.

It’s hidden behind the old counter on the far end of the still cramped kitchen, and she isn’t sure it has seen them yet. It would have attacked, surely; would have leapt for Jon before she even had a chance to reach him, if it had.

“How did it get in here?”

She only speaks in a hushed whisper, but Jon is spinning around before she can ask or say anything else, forcing his hand over her mouth to gag her, keep her quiet.

She loses all grip on him then, hands flailing about as he walks her backward. Almost stumbling over her skirts, her bunches them up at her sides, easing her walk.

He’s beside her, walking backwards with one hand clasped firmly over her mouth to control her and the other pulling back the second curtain.

Sansa keeps her eyes clamped shut until he’s stopped, brought them into position inside what she gathers is Granny’s uneven wardrobe.

Father had built it for her some years back, Sansa remembers, admiring the crooked roof and the unsteady floor. She’d never quite understood why, seen as Granny Lyarra possessed fewer clothes than any of her family members. Maybe she’d wanted it for storage, for her bits and pieces.

It’s a cramped space, and the thin door creaks as Jon shuts it behind them. Her body is forced against the wall of its back, shoulders digging into the thick wooden slats.

He stands in front of her, one hand still over her mouth and the other on the panel keeping the door closed, arm crossed over his body, elbow digging into her ribcage.

Eyes open, she can faintly make out the sight of him. But she feels him more than she sees him.

Sansa feels her nose begin to run due to the change in temperature then, so she sniffles and holds her breath steadily, watching his face in the dark for alarm bells.

His palm tightens over her face, and she’s almost positive he is looking at her, watching himself.

It’s a little rough, his hold on her, and when she wiggles her eyebrows in protest, he loosens his grip. His hands smell like melted ice and old leather, she notes; it’s weirdly complimentary to his natural oaky scent.

Shifting his other hand from the wardrobe’s cracked opening, Jon lifts a finger to his lips, indicating that she needs to remain quiet.

There’s a hound, and a hound means trouble, and trouble means her worst nightmare.

She nods, lips pursed against his calloused flesh until he pulls his hand away and lets her breathe in fresh air.

It isn’t fresh though; far from it.

It’s unclean, and the haunting smell of rotten meat and flesh dancing below her nostrils cruelly. She half-wishes he would gag her again, with a cloth this time to suffocate the scent and stop the contaminated air from reaching her lungs.

“Sword.” She whispers, practically mouths. Unable to stop herself from reminding him of his abandoned weapon, she raises a brow and taps a hand to his belt where it should hang.

His hand clasps over her own though, and he only nods, fist curling tight over her joints so his palm covers her whitened knuckles.

He knows what she means, what she’s getting at. But his sword is on the opposite side of the cabin and she isn’t sure how he could retrieve it without catching that hound’s attention or setting its owner’s hidden plan into action.

If one of the hounds if here, if it has made it here alone, than Ramsay must be nearby, or at least very close. Or, perhaps, it came with him and he too is hidden somewhere in her grandmother’s shelter of a home.

This seems unlikely, Sansa thinks to herself. He’s too proud and loud and stupidly grand to hide in a closet as a vicious surprise for her. How could he even know where her Granny lived?

Jon knew the woods. Sansa knew her Granny. But Ramsay and his men and his hounds had no way of knowing where she would be heading unless he had either acquired a map and a man to guide his party, or assembled of trained hunters who could hunt prey by overtaking it.

How could they have arrived faster than Jon and her? She doesn’t know. But she thinks that maybe their day spent in his friend’s cabin had given the enemy the advantage.

She hasn’t paid much mind to her Granny’s whereabouts for a handful of moments now, instead too cooped up in a small wardrobe and worried about whether or not the man she refuses to follow will hunt her and harm her.

But her grandmother hadn’t been in the kitchen, nor by or in the bathtub, nor in the living area she so cherished. The rocking chair that no longer rocked because of its one broken leg was her favourite. She had been nowhere to be found, though, and the thought disturbs Sansa.

What if in fact what had happened was the exact opposite of what she was imagining? What if Ramsay had taken her, and only left this one hound behind as a warning? What if her dear Granny was the price to pay for her freedom?

Finally letting go of Jon’s belt, she shrugs her hand out of his grasp and raises it up to wipe the bridge of her nose. It’s drippy and she sniffles softly behind her palm, concealing the noise the best she can.

How long he plans to make them stay in here, she has no idea. But from the way he looks to be peeking through the crack in the door - well, she assumes, at least - it wouldn’t be too long. He’s determined, resolute; leave her somewhere safe and return home to his solitude and despair.

It’s an awfully sad plan he’s mapped out for himself.

“Stay.” It’s a command, and she will obey because he’s her protection now.

Then Jon moves, elbow digging further into her stomach until he slides it higher to rest beneath the crook of her armpit. He leans against the back of the closet with his elbow, and Sansa turns in default, pushed aside by his body. The left side of her body pressing against the door, she now shares his view of the outside.

The crack in the door traces the entire length of the wardrobe’s height and Sansa stills as she catches sight of something. Her right hand comes to rest against the wood, head tilting forward to get a closer look as she tries to budge Jon out of the way.

But it’s a tight apace, and he has to grab her hips to halt her movements. Fingers digging into her hips, he breathes into her neck, awkwardly stood behind her as she moved ahead of him, “Stop.”

She brushes off his demand and squints, peering out through the one long stream of light in their space. In the darkness, she can make out his curled hair falling into the crook of her neck from the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t mind. Instead, she tries to keep her gaze forward and on target.

It’s strange, the sight before her.

Granny’s bed is in direct opposition of the wardrobe, all singular and standing on iron legs. She usually has it made up, pristine and neat and better than even Sansa could manage.

Only the bed covers are pulled all the way up instead of folded and there seems to be some large form tucked away beneath them.

Had Granny been sleeping this whole time?

Taking a closer look, Sansa feels her lips part as she catches a glimpse of a pair of feet hanging over the bed’s edge. One is bare, the one adorned with a woman’s low suede boot. The laces are undone, as though hurriedly finished. She thinks she recognises them, having tried them on numerous times when she was still young and curious.

There’s a thin, almost transparent stream of red liquid trickling down the naked foot, and the droplets spill on the floor. It’s a pool of blood.

And then Sansa gathers her thoughts, and realisation hits.

The loudest of cries escape past her lips then, as her world seems to crumble and her knees weaken. She almost buckles over in half, stumbling through the closet doors onto the dirty floor of the house until Jon has wrapped both arms her body and pulled her upright.

Her body appears weak, energy lost, and strength replaced with weakness.

His hold is tight, and she somehow manages to find comfort in the grip his hands have on her waist. Her lungs ache, struggle to gasp fresh breaths of the soiled air. The smell is rotting, the ever-present stench of death hanging above them. It makes sense now she thinks with fluttering lashes.

This is the price she is to pay for a little independence.

All this time, all these days walking and waiting and wandering, and Granny was never going to greet her at the end. Granny was never going to be welcoming her with open arms because Granny was dead and so were Sansa’s hopes.

“Stop.”

Jon only repeats himself, repeats earlier words, and runs one hand up and down her side, pulling her into him from behind so she feels his chest flush against her coated back. It’s soothing, in a way, but painful in another.

He holds her so tight she thinks she may have trouble breathing, almost makes her want to hold her breath and wait for death to come and collect her at his feet.

But it’s comforting; the way he holds her so tight she thinks she may have trouble breathing. And he repeats that one word on a loop, and she realises he is trying to calm her down.

“Stop.”

_Don’t panic, don’t cry. Please don’t scream, don’t shriek. You have to stop acting. Stop. Fight. Stop. Please._

Letting her shoulders fall against him entirely, Sansa allows her legs to give way, though she keeps her head held high.

She had been fighting this while time, to survive, to reach her grandmother’s house and gain just a little bit of freedom. But it was all in vain.

Her nose is runny again, and her hair itchy at her frustration at the situation, but she has no energy to lift a hand and scratch either itch.

Moulding herself into Jon’s body, she lets her eyes close with a bite of her tongue to stop herself from crying.

She has been fighting this whole time, to survive; she isn’t going to stop now.

Nodding to reassure him that she is calm, Sansa reaches for the hand on her left side, bringing it up to her mouth until he covers her lips with his palm. She squeezes his fingers, adds pressure to the gag, pushing the ball of her hand against his knuckles until he gets the message.

Hold me there. Don’t let me breathe. I’ll scream.

She will subdue herself to some pain, to some controlling if she has to, if this will keep her from feeling. It’s an awful feeling she doesn’t want to experience; the one eating at her insides.

Granny is dead and I do not know why, and I am completely and utterly messed up.

She is messed up, changed as a person, far gone from the girl she was several days ago.

“Sword.” She grits her teeth against his hand, mumbles the word out again and again until he hears her properly.

It’s dark though, and she cannot see his face, so he pinches her side with his other hand to acknowledge her comment.

He knows what she needs, what he needs to do. But he also needs a plan to move forward and a way of going about things before he can act.

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut again, holding her breath until she can no longer and her heart thumps against her will. She is still alive.

Jon’s hold over her mouth slips when he moves, dancing forward until she is back against the wardrobe’s flat wall. His fingers sliding below her chin but refusing to lose contact with her skin, his thumb rests on her chin, gentle and distant.

It’s ticklish almost, the way his skin is softly tracing over hers, and Sansa is certain he hasn’t even acknowledged the shift. It’s unintentional, and it deliciously burns her skin so much that when his thumb traces over her bottom lip, she absentmindedly opens her mouth and clamps her teeth down around his knuckle.

She can feel the bone beneath her teeth, the thirsty veins beneath his skin close to bursting when she darts her tongue against them while softly crunching at his muscles. It hurts him, surely, but he doesn’t flinch, she notices.

He doesn’t move, not fully; only twirls his hand around so he’s cupping the side of her face and the pad of thumb lies flat against her tongue. It’s melted snow and damp oak and Snow. And she likes it.

Lashes flickering, Sansa opens her eyes to find herself staring directly at him. He’s closer to the door now, almost on his way out. But she wants to keep him here, in here, with her, for always.

She’s in pain, and grieving, and she isn’t sure if he still plans on leaving her.

It would break her if he did, if he left her here and never came back. It would crush her heart and rip her in half. He may as well leave her here and bleeding to be eaten and shredded by that hound if he truly means to desert her.

Her plans have suddenly changed now, she notes. As much pain as their plan caused her, she knew how it would end.

She was to stay here with Granny and go home whenever she liked. And he was to leave and go home as soon as he wanted. Only his home was not her home and this saddened her.

She knows it’s foolish, still. She knows this, and yet a part of her still hoped things would end differently.

But perhaps that foolish part of her had been savvier than she’d expected, because now things are different and the plan needs altering.

She’d give him anything if it got him to stay with her, for her. She’d trade her desires for a lifetime of solitude if only it meant she could spend those lonely days at his lonely side.

They could be lonely together; two souls desperate for more but unwilling to act, two hearts loosely tied together with a broken tether.

But he needs to do something now, and work out an escape, and get his sword to get them to safety.

If he can just run, and fight for a moment, then maybe they would have a chance. But hounds are a hungry breed, desperate for food and eager for snacks.

She doesn’t plan on being bait, though, and she isn’t expecting Jon to, either.

Keeping her lips wrapped around his thumb, she ignores the oddity of the situation to instead point a finger down the crack of light in the door.

It’s an awful suggestion, but he will agree once he understands and she will hate herself for thinking of it. It’s dangerous, and she isn’t sure it will work.

Without another thought, Sansa pushes open the door to the wardrobe, almost falling face-first on the ground as it swings open. Jon wraps a hand around her elbow to pull her up before he’s off and heading for the doorway.

She can hear him enticing the dog, encouraging the beast to follow him. He shouts, whistles, and the odds that he could be caught in the outside world by Ramsay or one of his men are high.

They will take their chances, though, Sansa knows. They have to. They have no other alternative.

Pulling the knot of her cape tighter, Sansa holds her breath as she sweeps the furs off of her grandmother’s lying body.

She tries to avoid looking at her wounds. But the wounds are huge gashes, and she has been torn apart around the waist. Her stomach empty, she’s an easy weight for Sansa to drag from the bed. The acknowledgment of such disgusts the redhead.

She had never imagined herself in such a situation. How could she?

No person should ever have to drag their savagely killed grand-parent around like this.

Shooting a glance outside the room, she notices Jon’s sword disappeared from the door, the sheath thrown on the floor, slowly being coated in falling snowflakes from the wind outside.

It blows fast and loud, and she isn’t sure if the noises she can hear are howling or gusts of wind. Perhaps Ghost had returned to them, alive and hungry and ready to fight; they’d lost him for the briefest of moments upon arrival at the house. He hadn’t come in, only gone around the cabin to scour its land.

When the old woman in dropped onto the floor with the slightest of thuds, Sansa keeps her eyes focused on the ceiling as she pulls the largest blanket she can find from the bed and lies it out on the floor.

It’s wide enough, she reckons. Upon second glance, she recognises it as her Granny’s favourite, and the fate of such a circumstance is chilling to her.

Once the blanket is laid flat, she pulls on the booted leg of the woman’s body.

She has to pretend this is somebody else, that this isn’t her dear sweet grandmother she is dragging from a bed and covering with a blanket. What would Father or Mother say? Gods.

Her body is stiff, all bluing and bruised where her blood has stopped flowing. It must have been hours, days. Swallowing a long deep breath, Sansa breathes through her mouth and blocks her nasal respiration until she has her grandmother all spread out on the blanket.

She cannot afford to think about Jon or what is happening outside. If he dies, she is alone and most likely going to die herself. If he survives, she is left with two options. He leaves her with no goodbye, or comes back to her.

“Sansa.”

He’s in the doorway then, her Jon with speckles of fresh red blood on his face and his sword dropping to the floor at his side. There’s a thick coating of blood on the blade, half-coated with clumps of matted fur imbedded in the blood.

“Gods.”

She runs to him then, hands sweeping at his face to rid him of the blood. But it spreads across his face and Sansa’s gloves stick from the moisture.

He doesn’t seem to mind though, the blood on his face, as he looks behind her and admires her handiwork.

It’s awful, she knows; what she’s done, what she’s had to do.

“There’s a lake.”

She doesn’t question what happened outside, only nods once, twice, and once more when Ghost appears in the doorway behind his master. Thank the Gods.

Sansa picks up his dropped sword and leans it against the freshly empty bed, blade scraping the floor.

Leaning down, she waits until Jon is at her level and side before grabbing her corner of the blanket and beginning to roll it over, making sure they are in sync.

Her grandmother deserves better. Well, deserved better.

When the blanket is rolled up, the elderly woman’s crippled limbs stored safely inside, Sansa stands with shaking hands. She watches as Jon picks her up, over his shoulder, unwilling to let the dangling feet divert his attention.

He makes for the door before she can make peace with their situation, and she follows quickly behind, grabbing his dirtied sword on her way. They may need it.

Ghost follows them as they go, trailing behind to keep watch after Sansa. He nudges his nose against the sword every now and again, smelling the blood with flakes of falling snow dancing on his fur.

It’s a powerful image, Sansa finds. Snow white fur and stark red blood. She thinks the contrast is similar to that of her and Jon. Fiery copper and its black shadow.

She is the fire and he is the embers.

They seem to walk for only a moment before they’re reaching a vast opening, where small rosebushes shrink in size until they cease to exist and snowy mud leads the way to the edge of a lake.

She follows Jon down the dock, where there are two boats tied to the wooden post at its end. She doesn’t know who they belong to, nor does she care to find out.

“Steady.”

He’s plopping the rolled up blanket down into one of the boats then, and Sansa has to convince herself that it’s an animal they’re depositing. It’s a dead animal and they need to get rid of it so others don’t go after it. The smell of rotten flesh would attract many, surely.

He’s holding out his hand to her then, waiting for her to take it and join him on the small boat.

It seems like only minutes ago that she was discovering her grandmother’s dead body beneath crumpled sheets. But time flies, and they have to act fast.

Taking his hand, Sansa grips his shoulder to gather her balance before settling down on the boat’s bench, sliding his sword down at her feet. It’s a thin slate of wood, and her legs curl beneath her as Jon unwinds the rope from the dock.

He knows what he’s doing, Sansa tells herself. They won’t be lost, they won’t drown.

Ghost lies down patiently, giant head on giant paws, on the dock’s edge as they depart, determined and on a path of no-return.

Once they’re out in the middle of the lake, Jon lays down the paddle she hadn’t known he’d been holding and brushing back and forth against the water’s current.

“Are you sure?”

Unwilling to ponder over her decision for another moment, Sansa nods her head and stands with unsteady legs.

She waits for Jon to grab the end of the blanket and heave it up onto the side of the boat before placing her palms flat against what she can only assume are her grandmother’s once comforting arms.

With a lick of her lips, the young woman nods once more, glancing at Jon to confirm her wish. He copies her, places both hands flat against the blanket and pushes.

They push in unison until the rolled up mass falls from the edge of the boat, sending them rocking back and forth unevenly. Sansa grips at the side of the boat to balance herself while Jon retrieves his paddle and settles the water around them.

When they’re steady, she allows herself to sit back down, facing the side of the small boat this time, eyes downcast.

“There was no choice.”

She knows it’s supposed to be comforting, reassuring, but in reality Jon’s words do little to soothe the ache in her heart.

“I know.” She agrees, licks her lips and watches as he places one hand on his knee and one on her own.

It comforts her more than any words could, she discovers.

They’re rowing back, slow and sure and ice cold beneath the beginning of a snowstorm. If it gets any thicker, any worse, they will have nowhere to go, to travel.

They will either die or part ways. Sansa isn’t sure which is worse.

When they reach the dock, Jon only helps her get off o the boat with hands wrapped around her elbows. It’s then that she notices he had abandoned his cloak back in the cabin and his skin is freezing.

His nose is red, the contours of his eyes pink from the flushing weather.

She tugs on his wrist then, firmly wielding his sword in her other hand as they head off, Ghost once again at their feet.

“Sansa.”

Ignoring his call, she continues on in a hurry until her Granny’s house is in sight. She’s almost dragging him behind her, he with the tired bones and bloody face, he with the aching joints and freezing flesh.

She forces him past the threshold of the house once they arrive at the door, and his dry sword gets tossed aside on the floor by the fire.

She makes quick work of filling up the bathtub with steaming water she pours from the handle on the wall. Granny had a strangely heated well, she remembers.

Coming back over to him, Sansa shrugs off her cape and pulls on her braid to loosen her hair until it hangs free.

“Take your clothes off.”

She is the stronger one now. She is the one with the flaming skin and the dangerous eyes. He is little more but bruised muscles and ice cold skin.

When he refuses to act, or has no energy to do so from the change in climate and bodily temperature, Sansa stalks forward and grabs ahold of his jerkin.

He is cold and near sick.

She pulls on his clothes, on the strings and fastenings until his chest is bare and his lips are quivering.

He’s tried to ignore it, she finds. He has been ill for days and refused to mention it. His chest is covered in splotches of blue and yellow, old and new bruises staining his skin. He has a stab mark by his heart, and she silently ponders over the miracle of such a wound.

There are two fresh gashes down by his abdomen, in the shape of claw marks and blood is oozing from them, though it dries before it can spill onto the floor.

His stomach muscles clench when she touches him, warm fingertips tapping against chilly flesh. She pushes, prods at him until he grabs her wrist and stops her.

“Would you have ever told me you weren’t well?”

Jon only keeps his head ducked, but he lifts a brow in jest and attempts a smile.

“You said you’d take me home.”

“I’ll get you there.”

She stabs at his abdomen again, and his fist curls, burns around her wrist.

“You never would have told me.”

He shrugs, refuses to meet her eyes this time.

“You never would have told me,” she repeats. “You would have just gone home and died.”

She twists her hand in his grasp and bites her bottom lip at the stinging sensation when he refuses to let go.

“You would have gone home to your little cabin and died, and nobody would have even known you existed in the first place.” She twists her wrist again, “That’s what you wanted it, isn’t it?”

“Aye, that’s what I wanted.”

“Is that still what you want?”

“I want you to go home. I want to take you there, and leave you there.”

“Why?” She stabs at him again, with her free hand, and he doesn’t grab her this time. “Why are you so determined to rid yourself of me?”

“Because I don’t need you.”

Sansa nods, chews at the inside of her bottom lip, “That’s true. You don’t need me.” She confirms, finally twists her wrist out of his grasp and pushes his arm away. Wrapping her fingers around the strings of his breeches, Sansa tugs at the loose knot and roughly pulls on the laces until they hang free, “But you do want me.”

He doesn’t refuse her, doesn’t fight when she slips her hands down his backside and pushes his breeches and garments down his legs until he’s stood completely bare before her, stepping out of his socks and boots when she tells him to.

“You can’t deny that, at least.”

Sansa smiles, stands back and casually lets her eyes travel down his body. Her cheeks flush at the sight of his live member and she swallows a breath.

“Get in the water.”

Nodding her head over at the bathtub in the other room, she waits for him to depart before she heads over to the dying fire and adds logs onto the flames, relighting the source of heat.

When she catches sight of him again, he’s halfway into the tub, hands gripping the sides, muscled back curved as he lowers himself into the boiling water.

He groans when the heat meets his wounds, easing the blood from its new infection. “For fuck’s sake.” Jon mutters through gritted teeth and Sansa grins.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, allowing him a minute or so to settle down and get used to the sweltering heat.

When he sinks lower in the full tub, turning off the tap to stop the water flow, Sansa watches as he groans, eyes closing in some kind of pleasurable agony.

Scrunching up an old rag she finds on the table by the window, Sansa approaches the edge of the bath. She kneels down at first, taking her time to roll up her sleeves, before picking the cloth back up and dropping it down into the water.

Waiting for it to soak through, she stares down at Jon’s face, the way his lips gradually turn from a greying lavender to a pastel pink colour.

Clutching the cloth between her fingers, she rests her free hand on his back and pushes him up into a sitting position. Jon flinches at the sensation, having not realised her proximity, nor her intentions.

Sansa only nods to assure him that she won’t press too hard on his wounds, and when his body relaxes, she swipes the soaked towel down his front, circling the claw marks low on his abdomen.

His teeth shatter and grind together, she notices, and her touch softens just the slightest when she smoothes over the bloody scratches.

He’s bruised and worn and sore, but she knows this pain he feels is nothing new. He has lived, and suffered, and known anguish and loss. He knows what she’s feeling, she thinks; perhaps even more than he would ever let on.

Sansa pauses when he brings his arms to rest along the sides of the tub, fingers encircling the rim and dragging himself to sit up straight.

He groans at the ache again, and bites his tongue when she drags the cloth over his bruised chest, trying to avoid pushing too hard against his sternum.

Trailing the towel over his collarbone, she sweeps it up his neck, his throat engulfed by the cloth caught between her thumb and forefinger. She could strangle him if she wanted to. He would let her.

“You were right.”

His words catch her off-guard, and she stills when his hand on her side of the tub comes to toy with a long strand of hair at her front. He pulls it out from the gathering of her robe and twirls it around his finger.

“What was I right about?”

Everything, he wants to tell her.

You were right about my strange longing for death and all that that entails. You were right about me wanting you, and about me denying it. You were right to have feelings for me and wish for my own affections in return. You were right. You were right, and I’m no wolf. I’m but a man with a broken heart and a crippling fear of it being repaired.

“About this.” He tries a smile, again, and they’re turning in circles. They’ll never talk, not truly.

He nods down at the bathtub, where water swirls around him as he lifts his legs to bring his knees up to his chin.

His finger around her hair twirls and curls and pulls, and she leans closer despite his gentleness. He cups her cheek for a moment, but then his hand moves lower and curves down the side of her neck.

Her breath holds, her hand still firmly clutching at the towel against his chest, her other resting in her lap.

Sansa shifts onto her knees when he draws her closer, eyeing her lips and rosy cheeks. Her head ducks when his touch lingers over her chest, as though he’s in deep contemplation over something.

“It’s warm.” He tells her, and it takes her a moment to realise he is talking about the water’s temperature. “Won’t you join me?” His hand over her chest finally tugs at the ties of her dress then, roughly pulling on the loose strings until it hangs open at her breasts and Sansa gasps, dropping the cloth in her shock.

She doesn’t budge an inch when his bruised hand sweeps past the material of her robe and her shift and cups her breast firmly.

Her eyes only close and her breath catches anew when he does the same with the other side and yanks the top of her dress down to her upper arms, freeing the skin of her shoulders.

It’s uncomfortable and constricting - the heavy robes around her arms - so Sansa stands and pulls at the stomach of her dress until it pools at her waist. Her shift hangs loose and she pulls it out from beneath her robe, tossing it down onto the damp floor beside the bathtub.

“Like this?”

“Not quite.”

He shakes his head, finds some energy from somewhere and shifts onto his knees.

Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, or the desire, or the sheer lust. “Like this.” He tugs at the waist of her dress harshly, ignoring the lacings and watching as it tears beneath his hands, and falls at her feet.

“You ruined my dress.”

“You won’t be needing it anymore.”

“No?” She lifts a brow, tosses her red hair behind her ears and licks at her lips once his hands grasp her hips again.

Sansa removes his hands from her body briefly to prop her leg up on the rusty tub. She tugs at the laces, tries to ignore the way his hands glide up her calf and thigh. When her shoe is untied, she removes the boot and sock and follows suit with the other leg.

He drags her closer then, right beside the tub, his face almost buried between her clothed legs. He mumbles a ‘No’, allows gooseflesh to erupt all over her skin and pebble her nipples before he pulls on her small-clothes slowly, once her boot and sock are gone and she is spread open before him.

His calloused hands are smooth down her backside as he draws the material down, bending her leg back into a straight position. He drops the clothes when they reach her knees and grips her legs, thumbs on the inside of her thighs.

“Join me.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Join me, won’t you?”

“Try again.”

He tightens his hold on her thighs, and Sansa smiles. “Get in the fucking water.”

She complies at that, willingly letting him smack one hand against her backside as she lowers herself down into the bathtub. She curves her hands over the edges, letting his own cover them, and falls back against his body with a slight moan.

“Warm?”

“Not enough.” The water is boiling, scolding hot even, and she is teasing him. “Perhaps friction will warm me up.”

“Friction?” He holds back a chuckle, she hears, and the noise is enchanting yet practically foreign to her. “Just what do you want me to do exactly?”

“Rub me.”

Jon shifts, chest smoothing against her back, “How so?”

She grabs his hands at that, placing his right over her right breast and his left down between her legs. She spreads them wide, as wide as the tub can allow, and leans her head back against his shoulder, face turned into his neck, lips nipping at his flesh.

There is still blood there, she observes with hazy eyes before allowing them to close when his fingers shift below the water, spreading her apart and parting her nervous flesh.

“Is this what you want?” His voice is husky against her ear, all northern gruff and dark. “You want me to rub you there?”

Sansa nods, the wet ends of her hair weighing her down. She feels herself sinking when he rubs circles against her centre, middle fingers desperately seeking out her crevices and thumb tracing her nub in repeated motions.

He brings it back and forth over her peach, and she’s reminded of her lips curled around that same finger earlier, sucking and licking at the skin.

Her eyes shut at the memory, lashes fluttering over her cheeks, and she cries out when he pinches her nipple between his fingers while stimulating the space between her legs.

“Gods.”

“Good?”

“Yes. The Gods are good.” She affirms with an excited nod, arching her back beneath the water’s brink. She scrapes against him, all tired limbs and aching muscles. “The Gods are very good.”

“Am I good?”

When he receives no immediate reply, Jon pinches her again, once on her nipple, once on her peach. It stings and she gasps. When he repeats the question, Sansa refuses to answer once again. Curiosity has eaten her alive.

_No, you aren’t good. You helped me toss my dead grandmother into a freezing lake. No, you aren’t good. You won’t fuck me like I ask._

But if you’re bad, then I am, too. And if you’re twisted, then I am, too, and I wholeheartedly hope we never unwind.

“Am I bad then?” He voices, “Am I the big bad wolf?”

She nods, unwilling to submit to his questioning. He’s toying with her, she knows it. He won’t give her what she truly wants. He never will, so why should she encourage him to leave her wet and wanting?

“Am I the big bad wolf?”

He grits his teeth this time, and his voice is rougher. He sounds bad, as though he could tower over her scared frame and scare the wits right out of her. But he won’t, and she knows this. He won’t hurt her, not really.

She can only pay little mind to his words, anyhow, because his fingers are working furiously against her lips and she can feel herself clench and unclench to build up her own frustration. It’ll never end, this desire she feels, this need to be touched and held and played with by him.

It’s only when he has slipped two fingers inside her, and the ball of his hand is rubbing against her nub that she lets slip a cry. She tingles, and her legs want to straighten out as her climax builds, but the tub is cramped as she has to lift her backside to find release instead, toes curling as he traces his thumb is circles over her clit.

“Gods.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Jon points out, and her eyes flicker open to catch a look at him.

His hair is wet, disheveled and curly and black as a burnt down forest. Perhaps he is the big bad wolf, after all.

“You’re a wolf, and you’re big.” She smirks, closing her eyes again, wrapping one arm around his neck from behind her head.

Sansa pulls him to her, draws his face to rest in the crook of her neck. It’s close, closer than they’ve ever been, closer than she ever thought she could get him.

“How big?”

“Big enough that I’m not entirely sure I could handle what I’ve been begging for.”

“Have you been begging?” He stiffens a laugh and groans when she rubs her backside against his lap, parting her cheeks over his groin. “I don’t remember you getting down on your knees.”

“You would if you’d let me.” She reasons, sways her hips forwards and backwards, gripping at his neck with one arm, her other hand clasped tightly around the curve of the tub’s edge.

“You never asked.”

“Would you, then?” She bats her lashes, flickers her eyes open and stare at him. Her lips are dry. He hasn’t kissed her, hasn’t touched her lips with his own in hours, maybe hours. “Would you like me to get down on my knees and beg you to fuck me with that big cock, wolf?”

His face is tucked safely against her neck, his mouth pressing constant kisses against her throat as he continues to toy with her nipples, “Would I be bad if I refused?”

“Yes.” She confirms, “Because I’m desperately in need of being fucked.”

“And if I agree?”

“Then I’ll get down on my knees and take your cock in my mouth and let you do what you want to me.”

“I think perhaps you’re worse than I am.”

“Are you saying I’m the big bad wolf, now? I thought I was nothing but a meagre little lamb.”

“You’re a wolf, aye.” He grins; she feels the curl of his lips against her sensitive flesh. And he plucks at her clit again.

“And I’m big and bad then?” Sansa teases, releasing herself from his grasp and pulling herself up until she stands in the tub.

Her feet remain on either side of his thighs and she smoothes both hands down her sides, watching as his eyes shift from her dripping breasts to her damp and wet cunny.

“Don’t bad girls deserve to be punished?”

“That depends on how bad you’ve been?”

Sansa escapes from the bath then, hands gripping the rim to steady herself. She knows he will follow suit, so she makes her way out of the room, down toward where the fire blazes on.

“What if I ran away from home?”

“Why did you run away?” He’s behind her; she heard the splash of the water and she can feel his breath dancing along her neck.

“My parents wanted me to marry someone I didn’t want to marry. I ran away in the middle of the night, didn’t tell anyone I was leaving.”

“I’m sure your parents are worried.”

Sansa bats her lashes, feels the slightest of shivers run up her spine as she settles herself down before the fireplace, toying with the bottle in her hands she’d plucked from her basket on her way over. “Oh, and a witch gave me wine, or ale, or something terribly indecent for young ladies to drink.”

She pulls the still unopened flask up at her side, unscrews the cap before taking the smallest of swigs. It’s disgustingly strong, and it burns her throat.

She has to cough out a protest at the flavour, and Jon pries the bottle from her hands, eagerly and easily chugging down a sip or two before placing it aside.

“That’s rather bad of you.”

“That isn’t all.” She mockingly informs him a shake of her head, damp strands of hair clinging to her shoulders, “I met a man, on my travels. He’s handsome, and smart, and brave. But I fear he can be quite dangerous.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. He said he wanted to eat me. Or taste me. Or lick me. I’m not too sure which it was, if I’m honest.” She quips with a shrug, leaning back on her elbows against the furs spread out before the roaring fire. “I let him, though. I let him do all of those things. I quite enjoyed it.”

“Did your mother never tell you not to talk to strangers?”

“She told me, yes. But when they’re so rudely charming I can’t not let them lick my pussy dry, can I?”

“Is that what he did then? This man you met on your travels…”

He has followed her lead, had lowered himself down onto the furs she sinks into and he hovers above her with purpose. She has never felt so frightened yet excited.

Sansa nods, leans back when he leans forward, arms stretching over her until his palms lie flat against the sides of her head. “Yes. Well, I say he licked me dry.” She frowns, smoothes a hand down her stomach until she reaches between her legs. “I’m always so wet. Would you like to see?”

Raising a brow, she waits for Jon to shift his gaze down to her lap before she spreads her legs and pulls her folds aside to afford him the dampest of treats.

“Do you see? I just keep imagining his mouth being force-fed my pussy and his tongue just won’t stop fucking me. I think he liked it, you know? The taste of me on his lips? He could probably savour me for hours. It’s no wonder I keep wanting to shove his head between my legs and let him spread me in half with that tongue of his.”

“Gods.”

“Yes. The Gods are good.” Her cheeks are flushed. “But I’m rather bad, wouldn’t you say?” Her chest pants when he lingers nearer, if at all possible. She’s nervous, little more than a frightened young woman with a man between her legs and no knowledge as of what to do.

“Has he fucked you yet?”

“No. He won’t. He refuses me.” To hear the words is damaging, and she feels her heart crush at the truth. “I’m half convinced he doesn’t even want me.”

There are tears behind her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall, to let slip out and reveal her true self, her inner a d utmost identity.

_I’m a girl who knows little of the world, but I happen to think I love you and I want nothing more than for you to love me in return._

She will settle for less, though. She will let him have her if only it means she can have him.

“How could a lonely man not want a beautiful girl like you?”

“Because I’m a little bit foolish and a little bit messed up. Because I pretend I’m somebody else just so one man will want me. Even if the person they want isn’t who I truly am.”

“Then who are you really?”

“A lonely beautiful girl who wants a lonely handsome man to love her because she is in love with him and her heart will surely break if he doesn’t want her in return.”

She can feel his hand at her side, on her hip, thumb rubbing circles into her bone. It’s calm and soothing and her eyes close. Her breathing doesn’t steady, though; it can’t, not now.

The one thing she has asked for will be refused one last time and she will crumble, be rendered a fraction of who she was.

“You can’t expect someone to return your feelings just because you love them. You’re sure to be disappointed.”

He is going to refuse her, and smirk it away. He is going to deny her his heart and she won’t even blame him.

The fault is all her own. She dove head first into a dangerous situation; this is the price she will pay.

At this realisation, Sansa goes to sit herself up to avoid any unwanted tears spilling past her closed eyes. She doesn’t want to cry in front of him, doesn’t want to see his face and his pity for her.

She doesn’t want pity, sympathy. She doesn’t want a pat on the back or an apology with a smile.

But she is naked and bare, and as vulnerable as her name day here beneath him. She is innocent, and his for the taking if he only chooses to be brutish.

When she sits up, he grips her waist and stops her, forcing her to lie back down on the furs. The thought alone of what he can, might do makes her anxious enough, but then his hands are on her thighs and she is holding her breath.

Perhaps she misjudged him. Perhaps she gave him too much credit, thought him to be kinder than he truly was.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“Jon.” She can feel the tears pool at the corners of her eyes again, and this time she will let them drop. This is her last hope, her last resort at escaping with her heart intact. “Jon, please.”

She’s pleading, and crying, and he only lets her sit up before he’s pulling her into his chest.

Hand wrapped around the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, this is exactly what she hadn’t wanted.

“Jon, let me go.”

His face is mushed up in her hair, voice melodiously husky at her ear. “How am I supposed to let you go when I’m in love with you?”

His fingers in her hair tilt her head back then, and she stares up at his face, all teary-eyed and flushed cheeks.

“You aren’t still playing the game, are you?” She whispers in a mumble, throat clogged and lips dry.

He can only shake his head, eyes lighter than she has ever seen them and lips curling into a sincere smile. “That would be terribly cruel of me, wouldn’t it?”

There is no snark, no teasing. He is honest and real and she is willing to let herself cry.

“Okay.”

“Aye.” He nods, confirms her realisation of their situation, their admissions. “Would you like me to make love to you now?”

Sansa feels her chest weight her down and she lies herself back down on the furs, moving her arms to rest beside her head, letting him intertwine his left hand with her right.

“You aren’t going to fuck me?”

She isn’t certain she knows the difference.

“No.” He frowns, glances down at her curious face. “One day, maybe. If you really want me to.”

“How is this any different?”

Jon grins, all teeth and crooked smile. He leans down then, pressing his lips against her own, feeling her mouth curve into a smile against his lips.

She moans out when he slips his hand from her waist to her left thigh and softly grasps her flesh, pulling her leg to the side.

She willingly spreads her legs, tilting her head backwards to catch a glimpse of the snow falling down outside through the window.

His grip on her hand tightens, and her nails dig into his knuckles when Jon centres himself at her entrance, “Do you want me to stop?” It’s a dangerous question, and Sansa doesn’t think she could ever deny him. She is lonely and lovely and curiously enamoured with him. She loves him, wants him, has his full adoration and love in return.

“No.” She shakes her head to confirm her statement, and her free hand clasps at his upper arm when he pushes into her, breaching her barrier with the sharpest of sensations.

The ache is haunting at first, but the pain dulls after a moment or two, and she steadily finds her pace with him. He waits, though. He waits for her to calm and settle and steady her breathing.

She is on the edge, on the brink of something quasi foreign to her, and he will take his time with her.

“Are you close?”

Before she can answer him, there is a terribly glorious shiver running up her spine, and she feel every fraction on an inch he moves within her. It's alarming, really, how alive she is in the moment, how awake he has made her within minutes.

Sansa winces when he hits a certain spot, and her nails mark his skin at the sensation. It isn't painful though, and she encourage him by wrapping her legs around his waist, heels pressing into the top of his backside. Unclasping their joined hands, she moves her own to his back, and scratches at the flesh of his lower back, press-pulling him forward with the palm of her hand, “Harder. Please.”

He won't deny her that, she knows, and Jon complies by thrusting himself deeper within her, bruising her hips in his grip. His fingers bend to mould against her curves and he kisses her again, harder this time. He will agree to each and every request she could possibly make. “Hard enough?”

She nods, unsure if her body could withstand anything more. He's buried deep inside her, and she can feel herself building a bridge to reach her end; her nerves on fire and her limbs numbing out.

She grips his backside when her cunny muscles tighten around him, hips curling and snapping to meet his own, her wetness clamped around his length, forcing him to spend his seed inside of her.

It's an odd feeling, the way warm liquid sticks between her legs when he withdraws and he wipes them clean with a nearby garment.

It's caring, she finds, and a smile graces her face when he pulls on her abandoned cape from over the back of a chair and draws it over them. It covers her more than it does him, and their legs roam free beneath the red cover. He is warm though, finally, and Sansa lets her eyes drift shut at the calm silence around them.

He buries his body behind her, arm flung over her waist and pulling her into his front. It's reassuring and she finds comfort in the swell of his body.

“Was that mating?” She turns her neck to face him, feeling his beard dance along her sensitive neck as he kisses her skin, lower and lower until he reaches her shoulder.

Jon only chuckles, grinning into the curve of her neck, mouth pressing behind her ear, sending an eruption of gooseflesh down her body, “That's something else, entirely, wolf.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, it's been like eight months since I last updated this. But, honestly, I still completely love it. I never once thought of stopping it, and I hated leaving it on hiatus for so long. The only problem is that I somehow (in all that time) lost the original conclusion for this story, so these last two chapters are being rewritten from scratch and I've had to scrap any remaining piece of text I already had written because it wouldn't work with the new ending. Because of this, the end (and this first part of it), might annoy some of you or come off as a little "too easy", and underwhelming, but I promise it's only because I cannot for the life of me remember the ending I had half-drafted which was, I'm like 80% certain, better than this.

By the time she wakes, the fire has put itself out, all embers and dust. The room is filled with a heavy smell of smoke, the darkness of the night sky peering in through the window.

She doesn't know how they long they slept for, doesn't want to think of the advantage Ramsay could now have on them. What if he's close, nearby? What if he's waiting?

It's a dreadful thought, terrifying really - one she feels the chill of throughout her whole body, shivers up her arms as she pulls the cloak tighter. Jon is warmer now, thankfully more so than he had been before. His skin is rosier, still pale, but at least his complexion has returned back to its usual shade of snow white.

His backside is bare though, and she assumes he's tossed and turned in his sleep because he's on his side, one arm beneath his head, the other slung out as though to reach for her, cradle her.

Sansa sits then, clutching the makeshift blanket, curling her legs up beneath her. Her body is sore, tired, but not as plainly weak as it had been before. She would like to think she feels different, changed; but that would be a lie.

She is no different, not really, the only change being that she has now felt the true touch of a man, felt the promise of love and devotion. He could be lying, though. He could have cheated her, played another round of their game just once more, without her knowledge.

She wants to trust him, likes to think that she does. But he's a loner, and lonely, and perhaps she has given in too easily. Perhaps she has just ruined herself, soiled her name and body and soul because she wanted him.

She cannot let him have her again, this much she knows. She'd gotten what she wanted, what she felt she needed, and she guesses his cries had been those of relief, answered longing, too. Perhaps they played each other, after all.

Oh, well. If he leaves now, she will have to make peace with that fact.

She doesn't know why she doubts him, doubts his loyalty and word, but maybe it's the softer medicine to swallow, the one that won't scrape at her throat or burn her insides inside-out.

Maybe this way she won't be left hurting, alone.

"Are you going to keep staring at my backside all day?"

She snaps her attention back to Jon's face then, eyes trailing over the arch of his lower back, the hard muscles of his shoulders.

"Sorry." Her face flushes, much to her own discontent. Sansa curls her lips, one corner turning upward, "It's such a pretty bottom." She tilts her head, smiles.

She teases him, pokes at his nose with one finger, distracts herself before she can ponder anything more.

Jon can only frown, but there's the smallest chuckle that escapes past his lips anyway, "Thank you." It's almost a question.

"We have to leave soon."

"Where will we go?"

"Home."

She does not know where he means, which home he could be referring to. Her own, or his? The home she knows, has grown up in with her family? Or the one she would like to make for herself by his side, the one she would now like to call her own?

"Wouldn't it be safer to stay here?" It's stupid, she knows.

She lies back down at that, perched up on her elbow, cloak drawn up to cover her breasts, hair askew. Her eyes close, his hand pulling her closer, bringing her into his front, "I can't imagine anybody discovering us here."

"If your _intended_ hasn't already... One day, somebody will." Jon informs her, "Your brother, your father. We aren't in the unknown, little wolf."

He isn't wrong, but she would still rather like to believe this daydream could become her reality. She would like to believe they could stay here, live here, die here of their own will, of old age.

"I want to go home."

She nods, flicks ice blue eyes open to stare him down, challenge him as though he has opposed her. He complies, and she isn't surprised in the slightest. Perhaps he does just want to guarantee her safety. Perhaps she never misjudged him. Perhaps the misjudgement had just been her own excuse, an answer to her woes.

"You'll make it home."

_And I will go home, and I will be left just as I was before. Only I will be the girl unwed, bedded, wrecked. I will be the village harlot. I will be the wreckage, and you the flood._

"Ramsay will still want me."

He always has, probably always will. He won't care if she is willingly scathed, used. He will just make her his own anyhow. He will always want those who disobey him, oppose him; whether it be their head served on a platter or their freedom ripped from beneath them.

"And you will still refuse him."

"I can't imagine a time I won't loathe him." She tells him, lets him cup her chin, tilt her head, run his thumb along her bottom lip, "I can't imagine wanting him when I've had you."

"Sansa."

She makes to roll over him then, tossing one leg over his waist, hands on his abdomen, low. "Yes?" It's foolish. She shouldn't. She can't.

"Stop."

She should.

"Why?" She pinches the taunt skin of his belly, carefully avoiding his modest wounds, "Give me one reason."

"Because we don't have time."

"What if we never have time again?" She doesn't want to whine, to beg. But she liked it, and loved him, and would eagerly go for more even if what it means is still unclear to her.

He sits then, hands firmly on her waist, watching her slide down his lap until she rests back on her calves. "Then I guess our story is to be left without an ending."

There will always be an ending, be it wonderful or tragic, or a bittersweet combination of the two. There will be always be an ending, whether we choose it or not.

"You do riddle a lot." She points out, soft brows knitting, her face a pretty picture of ennui. "You're a riddler. A nice yet harsh riddler."

It isn't a jab, nor a jest.

"Would you like me to speak clearly?" He asks, runs one hand up her thigh as she bends her knee with a nod of her head, brings him closer, forces him to lean into her. "I would like to have you."

"Properly?"

Perhaps she doubted him for no reason at all.

"Any and every which way possible."

"Naked?" She smiles, grabs his hands, flips his palms over as she goes to stand, linking her fingers through his own, "In the flesh? All day?"

"If only the Gods were so generous." He kisses the crook of her elbow, rises onto his knees when she stands proudly, all tussled long hair and crimson cape. "If only I were so deserving."

"I believe this venture of ours has made you worthy of me." Sansa offers, cannot resist grabbing the sides of his face, pulling him up, forcing him to stand. He's scolding and cold at once - his face hot, his arms near freezing. "I believe I should myself lucky to have been saved by you."

"I haven't saved you, Sansa." He informs her with a dip of his brows, brooding and black, "I only want to protect you."

"Well, I don't need your protection." She swallows a breath, lets his hands fall, "I only ask for your word that you will take me home."

Perhaps she has misjudged her own feelings, played herself.

"I promised, didn't I?"

She nods, spins around until her back is turned. "Yes."

She leaves him to retrieve her clothes from the floor in the other room, slipping her dresses and garments over her head, pulling her socks and pants up. The bust of her dress is torn though, so she has to add one of her granny's simple slips beneath it.

"Are you mad?" He is dressing, too; this boy with the black hair and the white skin, this man with the voice of a fallen angel, the spirit of a demon ascended from below.

"No." She stuffs one leg in her boot, copies with the other, huffs, "I am... eager to leave this all behind."

Once I return home, I will ask Father for the right to marry you, love you. Once you return me home, you will ask Father for the right to marry me, love me. Once we return home, we will never leave.

"Eager to leave me already?"

"Eager to pretend I can."

Jon does not reply, but he helps her clothe, already having collected himself and his belongings.

They steal old food from the kitchen before they leave, and she shoves rolls of hard baked bread in her basket. It would be easier if she left it, went without. But if she has made it this far, then surely she can make it home with her favourite pannier.

They leave when the sun is rising, an amber glow on the pastel sky. The wind blusters, cuts, and she is grateful for her gloves, for her layers upon layers of dress.

She wants to think Jon has recovered, has regained his strength. But, in truth, she doubts he is well, that he is healed. He was wounded, and she had only just about patched over his fresh scars. How could he be healthy so soon?

"We should be home by morning."

A day's trek if they do not delay, stop. A day's trek and she will be returned, altered just in the slightest.

It will all have been for nothing, she thinks, pauses when she turns to sneak a look at Jon.

She wants him, wants _him_ , wants to live with him. She would like to believe he wants the same things she does, wants to share her company for the rest of his life, too.

But he is a loner, and he is lonely, and happy that way. It would seem that way, at least.

_'How could I leave you when I am in love with you?'_

Perhaps he does share her dream, after all.

Perhaps she should stop doubting him, let him have her, protect her.

Perhaps she should believe him to be her best chance.

-

It's only when she's reaching into the basket for something to eat that she ponders Ghost's absence. The wolf has not been seen for some hours now, half a day at the very least. They've been gone for hours, too, now, walking miles to find their way back.

Jon says Ghost is fine, probably off hunting or chasing deer. He doesn't doubt his pet's whereabouts for one moment, doesn't think to question his absence.

But Sansa is not so easily settled. "What if he was caught?"

One wolf is stronger than one hound, but it is weaker than several. One wolf is stronger than one man, but it is weaker than one wielding a crossbow.

"He'll come back soon."

As he says this, there's a crunching, a snap, of some twigs behind them. It's quick, and the sound is so quiet that Sansa wonders how she ever even heard it at all.

She half-expects Ghost to come pandering right out of the woods, right on queue, in sync with his master's words. She half-expects a fox, a deer, a hound to come running out of the bushes.

None of this happens, though.

Nothing happens until several moments later, when she hears shouting and a loud bang.

Jon's hand wraps around her wrist, all icy leather and numb knuckles, before she can turn to face the scene, discover the source of those sounds. He pulls her forward, drags her to keep up with his own pace.

"Keep your mouth shut."

It's a command, an order, and only an utter fool would disobey.

It isn't Ghost that trails behind them, nor is it a fox or a deer.

There is one man - no, two men - and one dog at their heels. Dressed in black, with crimson red crosses adorning the sleeves of their tunics; the sign of the enemy.

Sansa can only catch a single fleeting look at them, from over her shoulder, through the curtain of her hair.

The redness of her cape had caught their attention, she assumes. It is so bright, so imposing that it has to have been their giveaway. She should have changed into something else, discarded it in favour of something darker, colder, discreet.

Only a fool would sport the colour of death as they were being hunted. Only a fool would think to bring food and wine, cloth and needles. Only a fool would think to prioritise hunger over true survival, thirst over life. Only a fool would make the decisions she has made.

She is nothing but a foolish young woman, a stupid little girl. She is anything but strong, anything but wise. She is stupid, stupid and small. There is nothing grown about her.

How could she have thought herself matured when, in truth, she has been nothing but spoilt, helped? How could she think herself independent when she has never fended for herself, always relief upon a man, and a stranger one at that, to save her, protect her? How dare she call herself a woman when she is nothing but a scared little girl with nothing to lose and everything to give?

How dare she expect Jon to save her when she has never proven that she would do the same for him?

She knows the men are still following, still at their heels, still waiting for their inevitable fall.

They have swords, undoubtedly, and she knows they won't harm her (too much) because Ramsay wants her. And Ramsay will only harm her when he has her, in spirit and in law.

Perhaps she could prove herself, after all.

"Jon."

The man doesn't seem to pay her much mind, save for the hand clutching so tightly onto her arm, the occasional look back to make sure she is still there. The snow crunches with every step he takes, his steps louder than hers, the heaviness of his body tugging her along with only mild effort.

"Jon, stop."

"What?" He bites, and his tone is not nice, sweet. It isn't the cold, either.

"Stop."

She pulls at his hold, forces him to loosen his grip. Her arm drops, and she immediately balls her fist at the loss, at the realisation of what she is doing.

He's facing her directly, his body leant in a way that tells her which direction he is set, prepared to run in. But she is stopped- completely, resolute.

"Go." She nods once, twice, barely blinks before repeating twice more, "Go."

She does not have to drag him into this. She does not have to put him in harm's way any longer. She can help him now, she can save him now.

"Jon!"

"You're insane."

She can hear shouting, laughing, and the heavy footprints of the hounds being left in the thick snow that fell overnight. The blueing flakes still falling down on them are her one solace, make this picture prettier than it is.

"Perhaps."

She wants to grab at him, hold onto him, fall into his arms and close her eyes until death comes to collect her.

She wants to touch him, kiss him, have him hold her for just one second so she can pretend this isn't happening.

"He won't hurt me."

_Not right away. Not now. Not here. Not yet._

"You're stupid." He tells her, as though she doesn't already know this, as though she is so slow that she's still unaware of her own idiocy.

He grabs her then, one arm wrapping around her waist before she can even reply, one hand pressing firmly into the low of her back to push, shove her forward. She would refuse, but he's stronger, and he is determined. He's more determined to keep her alive than she is ready to die for his cause.

"Run."

Maybe he doesn't want saving, after all. Maybe he doesn't want protecting.

Jon does not let go of her, forever keeping one part of himself touching one part of herself, forever making sure she is still there, at his side, no more than a foot away from him.

"He will kill you."

"I made my peace with death long ago, Sansa. Long before you came along."

He slows, forces her to slow, catches her when she almost falls, tripping over a overgrown tree branch. Her boots have become worn, lightly shredding at the front when she has ran, tried to run, failed to keep up.

There is only so long they can hide here, crouched and huddled behind a thick oak tree, letting few fallen leaves float in the breeze until they land on the ground below them, shrivelling up in the cold air, coated in white dust.

There is only so long they can stay like this.

"Run south. Only south."

He's close to her, his breath so heavy and strong on her face, the curled hairs dangling over his forehead tickling her own skin. She wants to curl them, run her fingers through them. Terribly.

"To your cabin?" She will run, and hide, but only if he promises to join her.

"To your home."

The village is south, and his cabin is east. If only he would let her-

There's a growl, louder than that of a hound, not too far in the distance, and Sansa wills herself to believe that Ghost has returned to lend his master a hand, hopes that the weak howl had been that of a dying bastardly dog.

Jon pulls at the hood of her cloak then, drawing the strings tighter. He wraps a thick, burnt piece of leather she had plucked from her Granny's around her wrist, ties it to the basket of ale and wool.

"South."

She knows he surely cannot handle two of Ramsay's men. It isn't possible. He is weaker still, still battered and bruised and partially broken. But if he has Ghost, and if Ghost has already taken care of the hounds, then-

"Yes."

She wants to kiss him, wants to feel the touch of his lips one more time, one last time. But it would take too long, for she would fall and want to continue falling until she hit the surface of the the bottom of his heart.

If he has Ghost, he will be fine. And she can run. She can run, and hide, and she will freeze if she has to. She will go home, and she will tell someone, anyone, of what has happened. And they'll lead a party, and they'll help Jon, and she will-

"Go."

She hurries away then, smoothing a hand down his face once more, almost cradling his jaw like that of an innocent child. She wouldn't have let go if it weren't for the hand he bats her away with, with the hand that softly grabs her wrist and pushes, urges her to flee.

There is nothing innocent about him, though one may be fooled by his handsomely pretty features. One would be forgiven for thinking him unscathed, whole. One would be forgiven for thinking him a hero.

* * *

It hurts, to walk away, to run when she knows he is facing impending death.

Something inside of her aches at the thought, at the idea of Jon sacrificing his own freedom to guarantee her own.

He never asked to be her saviour, never sought after being her protector.

He could have denied her, refused her request and booted her from his cabin. But he is kinder than he lets on - or tries to pretend he can, at least - and he is softer than many other men she could have happened upon.

He never asked to be her hero, her guardian. He only wanted his peace, his freedom and isolation from the community.

And so, if he happens to survive, she will sacrifice her own desires, wants. She will grant him solitude, silent amnesty. She will demand that the villagers cease all hunting of he and his wolf. She will demand that the villagers leave him be. She will demand that they leave Ghost be.

If he survives, she will force herself to abandon him, if that is still what he truly wants, within his heart of hearts. She will forget him, will herself to pretend he is nothing more than a dream.

"Gods."

Her breath is heavy, panting, for she is not sure of how long she has been running, fleeing the hilltop.

There had been echoes of fighting men behind her at first, when she had left Jon alone at the tree. She had heard them sparring, shouting, coming to blows via swords and fists.

But she hadn't heard Ghost there, hadn't heard the direwolf growl, tearing a man from limb to limb.

That was some time ago though. The sky has darkened, the snowfall is heavier now, all thick flakes, refusing to melt on her tongue or hand. She is sure her feet are near purple, halfway frozen by now. But the adrenaline as well as her outright refusal to stop running, or rather hurrying, has stopped her from feeling the pain of the blistering cold.

Her throat is dry now, her knees boney and weakening. She looks over her shoulder every other moment or so, counts to fifty between peeks.

She is only a few miles or so from the village, surely. The basket on her arm is still swinging, the thick strap digging into her arm, most likely leaving its mark in her flesh.

She wants to stop, wants to drink, to rest. But there is no time for that, and she is almost-

"Ah, my love."

Her skin turns to ice then, shivers of sheer terror running up her arms and down her legs, encasing her entire body is a coat of fright.

"I've been looking for you."

If she could scream, she would. If only her voice would let her, if only her throat were clearer. If she could wail, she would do so until he slit her throat.

His eyes are darker than they had been when she last faced him, his hair sprinkled with snowflakes. His face is pale, but he bears more colour than she thinks Jon ever has. His cheekbones are prominent, his stance well rehearsed and his arms stretched behind his back, hands no doubt clasped, plotting.

"Aren't you going to greet me?" Ramsay smirks, takes one step closer, makes the distant village seem even farther away, impossible to reach.

If she ran, she could...

"Sansa."

"How did you find me?"

She would have thought him further north, buried deep in the woods looking for her. She would have thought him to be with his men, with his foot soldiers, his watchful aides. She would have thought him wiser than this, smarter.

Perhaps she misjudged his genius.

"It wasn't hard." He raises a brow, eyes her as though they are only catching up, trading news, "In fact, if it hadn't been for that friend of yours, we never would have found you."

She daren't speak his name, give him away. If Ramsay knows nothing of him, really, then she will not share. _Jon_ , she thinks, breathing out.m

Ramsay lowers his head, tilts it down with a calculating smile she has never had the displeasure of seeing. He shrugs, keeping his shoulders raised, "His precious wolf was easy enough to hunt down."

 _Ghost_.

Sansa's eyes close, foolishly, and she clutches onto the basket in her hands, knuckles turning an ivory white under her gloves. Her teeth grit, her lips drawn thin.

Gods, what have they done to him?

"Are you not happy to see me, Sansa?" He asks, and she can hear him move closer, hear his footprints carve into the thick blanket of snow, leaving his mark.

She doesn't reply, instead opening her eyes to star down at the ground, letting the redness of her cape shelter her face. She takes a deep breath, holds it in when his hand reaches for her face, bare and frozen.

 _Jon_.

 _Ghost_.

"Your family misses you terribly, my love." He tells her, strokes his index finger down her cheekbone to her jawline, cups her face in one hand.

She goes to turn her head, face the clearing to her right, but he tightens his grip, holds her steady. She could shove him, force him down. He has no weapon, that she can see. He has no protection, that she can see.

"I imagine they do."

His smile widens at her reply, finally, "As do I."

He runs the pad of his thumb over her mouth, smooth, pulls her lower lip out between his fingers. He tugs, watches her face flush, turn numb.

"Pretty little mouth." Ramsay says, focusing solely on her lips, "I do wonder what you taste like."

 _Jon_.

"He isn't coming," He informs her then, taking in her expression, "Your little wolf friend. My man have taken care of him."

"How do you know?"

"Because they always take care of my business." His hand slips from her face, and he plucks a finger into the basket on her arm, "Have you brought me baked goods, my love?" It's sickening, that name, his face. "Come, we can enjoy them once we are home."

He goes to pull at her arm then, wrapping his palm around her elbow. It isn't soft, gentle, not is it as rough she expects.

Only hours ago, she agreed to this, resigned herself to submit to him. Only hours ago, she had lead herself to believe that perhaps this was her only hope.

But, now, in his presence, alone... She would rather slit her wrists and bleed out onto freshly fallen snow than go anywhere with him. She would rather die than become his toy, his trophy. She would rather die than let him win without even some semblance of defeat, too.

"Let go of me."

His eyes roll, and she can tell he grows impatient every time she pulls her arm back, stands her ground.

The howling of the trees fills the silence he leaves, the crunching of snow behind him, careful and calm, escaping him.

"You're too weak to fight me, Sansa." He argues, digs his fingers into her arm, but she only feels half the sensation due to her layers of dress. Her sleeves are long, thick.

He presses harder then, as though he knows she feels nothing. "Look at you, you're shivering cold. You must be sick." It would be caring were he not so naturally cruel. "You can't possible think you can refuse me, like this."

"Let go of my arm."

"Sansa," He sighs, leans into her but lets go of her, "You are going to be my wife. Let me take care of you."

"As you took care of Jeyne?"

"That girl has a mind of her own." He holds his hands up, unabashedly, "Nobody can help someone who creates such elaborate stories."

"She never created anything." Her brows knit, and she can feel her throat tightening, her eyes tiring, so she blinks, fights back against the fatigue, "You set your dogs loose after her."

"But it happened so long ago now, Sansa." He adds, "Let us go home, and we can clear up all of this mess."

Sansa shrugs his hand off when he reaches for her again, trying to touch her shoulder. His face changes at that, turns from annoyance to anger, and she can tell his impatience is reaching boiling level.

"I'm not going with you." She informs him, gazes off behind him, watches as white fur masquerades as snow. Her lip twitches, her mouth curling upward just the slightest, "I'm never going anywhere with you."

"Fine then." He grunts, takes two steps back, resumes his position with his hands behind his back. "If you want to stay here, and wait for my men to find you, well then have your way. I'm sure they will be more than satisfied to teach you some obedience. They're lonely men, Sansa. They haven't felt the touch of a woman in so long."

He smiles, wicked, "Though I'm sure you must have learnt a thing or two on your travels. Maybe you could show them what your dead little hunter friend taught you. You do have a lovely mouth; would be a shame to let it go to waste, don't you think?"

Refusing to give in to his comments, she retains her arms by her sides, keeps ice blue eyes focused on the frozen field behind him. The rosebushes are covered in snow ash, the pink flowers now as pastel as her flushed complexion. But the snow, the snow is as white as Ghost's fur, and the redness of his eyes cannot go unnoticed.

His eyes match her cloak, the biting colour of death contrasting against the purity of Ramsay's unknown backdrop.

If only he knew...

"If I'm going to die, let it happen while there is still some of me left."

_You can have my body, but not my soul. You will never have me._

Ghost does not growl, does not make a sound, and his prints are lighter than Sansa has ever heard them. He is discreet, calm, a true ghost remaining out of sight, lingering.

But she sees him, and she knows that the wolf can sense her fear, her fright. He approaches on slow paws, head lowered.

If only Ramsay knew...

"Come, now. There is nothing here for you." The man reasons, waves a hand around with the slightest of laughs, disbelieving, "You can't run, you can't go back to that cabin. He isn't there, Sansa. He's gone. You have no out. You have no chance."

"I have one."

"Oh, and what is that?" He frowns, lets his truest colours show, his face the picture of evil itself, "Are you going to throw a snowball at me? Are you going to shoo me away with the flick of your little basket? You're stupid. You're just like your grandmother. She was weak, too. Couldn't fend me off." He gloats, "You're stupid, and you're alone, and you are helpless. You're nothing."

"Perhaps I am nothing," she stares at him, refuses to admit defeat, refuses to turn over her last card, "but then I still have my Ghost."

"Your ghost."

He chuckles, the kind of laugh that makes her skin crawl, makes every inch of her skin set itself aflame to burn all memory of his touch.

She watches the ever-present animal behind him, wonders how and when he first appeared, tracked her own. Maybe he had followed her, maybe he had abandoned Jon... Or maybe he had never been with Jon in the first place.

Maybe Ghost is all she has left now.

Maybe these Magic Woods have taken something from her, and gifted her something else in return.

Maybe the one she sought, the one she was always supposed to be find, had been the wolf himself.

My wolf. My beast of a man. My wolf of a man.

Perhaps Jon had been a wolf all along.

She nods her head once, twice, quickly, never taking her eyes from the beast's face, never letting her gaze drift. He watches her, the great direwolf with the pelt of Snow and the Stark scarlet wide eyes of her cape.

"Aye," she smiles, "My Ghost."

The wolf growls, makes a run for Ramsay's gut before she can give it another thought, before she can give him the signal to stop.

The sharpness of his teeth scrape, dig into the man's flesh, ripping into his side, tearing his skin to tatters. He grunts, groans, the beast's huskiness echoing alongside Ramsay's protests, screams of surrender.

The sound of torn leather has Sansa enraptured, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene. She is sure there are flecks of blood on her face, clothes and basket. She knows she should move, run, flee before anybody hears him and finds them.

But her body betrays her, and witnessing such a bloody death has never seemed to inviting. She would clap had she enough energy. She would smile had her face not partially frozen in the cold.

Her lips crack, and her nods reddens, and she can feel the bite of the cool air sting at her cheeks, as though someone is flicking their finger against her skin.

She burns, but she is made of solid ice. She is a mountain of cold embers, an iceberg of frozen ash.

He shouts, shrieks, screams like a little girl. He gives up fairly quickly, though, his body weakening.

He falls silent when Ghost has dug into his chest, ribs pulled apart, heart ripped from its cage.

It finishes before Sansa would like, Ghost lying down with his paws outstretched, mouth soaking red.

The crystal whiteness of his fur is ruined, drenched in blood and guts, an obvious warning sign of what he can do.

"Ghost."

The wolf rears its head to face her, watching as her blank expression turns to gratitude. He approaches then, standing up on four paws, moving to her side.

He sniffs at her side, muzzle against her hip, and she lets him rub remnants of her nightmare's stomach along the side of her cloak, staining the vibrant colour. He grunts into her side, and she pats his head, strokes the hard fur that hasn't been marred by ruby red blood.

"My wolf."

_Jon._

* * *

"You don't have to worry anymore, Mother."

She came home some time ago, all battered and bruised, worn and weak. Her long limbs aching, and heart heavy.

Mother had shouted, screamed, pleaded to know where she had been.

Sansa had refused to speak, though. Ghost had left her side once they reached the edge of the village, and he had hurried off like the hunted prey of a hungry man.

Alone, she had made her way home, ignoring the stares and calls of villagers, bystanders that shouted out for her, face expressionless. The witch was nowhere to be seen, the drinking hole only filled with regular drunken men and whores.

The door to her home had been left open, and Sansa had pandered through without much of a thought. She dropped her basket, let the contents clash and collide inside.

Her Father had looked up from his seat, tears rising to his eyes once he caught sight of her, his eldest daughter returned. It's the most emotion she has seen from him in winters.

Arya had scolded her, questioned her to no answer; her little brothers too little to understand, too happy to have her home.

But Mother, her mother had slapped her, called her every name under the sun until Sansa had thrown herself down onto the floor, crumpled up into a heaping pile of tears and sobs, unable to hold it in any longer.

Back haunched, she leant her elbows on her knees, let the redness of her cape and hair surround her face. She hiccuped, shoved when someone tried to touch her, refuses to move from the sanctity of the doorway.

She doesn't know how long she spent there, in that position, hugging herself so tight she could almost feel her bones shift, crush. Eventually, her cries had subsided, her tears drying, staining her rose face with streaks of white.

"What do you mean?"

Rising from the floor, she'd moved to her room, lying down on the bed despite her ruined dress, despite her bloodied clothes.

Her mother came in shortly after, plucked dirtied boots from off of her feet, heated up the room with a small fire in the corner. Catelyn had attempted to remove the cloak off of her daughter, but had only been met with protests and groans in response.

Abandoning all hope to have Sansa bathe and change, she had thrown fur upon fur over the girl, sheltering her in from the cold.

It's nighttime now, Sansa notes, gazing out from the window, eyes peering out through her hair, over the scoop of her head. She snuggles tighter into the material, swallows a breath.

"Ramsay's gone." She blinks, stares straight ahead at the front door, squints to peer through the small cracks, "And he isn't going to come back."

"Sansa." The tone of her mother's voice shows concern, but her face is the picture of apology.

If she had known...

 _Jon_.

"Grandmother," She starts, shoots her father the smallest of looks, closing her eyes after only a second, "She's gone, too."

It doesn't surprise her family, really. The woman was elderly, alone.

They don't ask, inquire; they just let her rest and wait for her to speak.

It's known that men should never travel along into the woods. Nobody dared.

Arya brings her a flask of water sometime later, and she sits at the bottom of the bed, hands in her lap.

"Did you kill him?"

She stares straight ahead, avoids Sansa's gaze, but the redhead can still spot the trace of a smile dancing along her little sister's lips.

"No." She offers, "But I let him die."

Turning to face her, Arya reaches a hand out, rests it on her sister's thigh, surprisingly comforting, "I'm glad you're home."

"Thank you."

"And I'm glad he isn't."

Sansa tries a smile, the corner of her mouth turning up just the slightest bit, and she knits her brows, slightly amused.

"What was it like?" Arya pries, leans closer, voice lowered, "In the Winter Woods? Father says it's dangerous, that it's a miracle you returned alive."

"It's... odd."

"Odd?" The younger girl frowns, chewing at her bottom lip, "Odd how?"

Before Sansa can reply, there's a loud pounding at the door, the old wood rattling, creaking at the sensation.

Catelyn has jumped up from her place at the dining table, stirring her pot of freshly cooked vegetables. She wipes her hands, takes a breath as she pulls the door open.

"Cat." The man greets, and Sansa recognises him as one of the young smiths from the town, Gendry. His brown hair is covered by a hat, his hands rubbing together, as though to keep warm, "Sorry to bother you this late, I... I know-"

"What is it?"

He doesn't pause, only raises his brows and peers into the family's home, "Is your daughter well enough to come outside, Cat?"

"Sansa?"

"Aye." He nods, shoots the redhead a small smile when he catches sight of her. "We're in need of her help, you see." He shrugs one shoulder, attempts a smile.

Catelyn sighs, pressing one hand on the doorframe, "She has only just picked herself up off of the floor and agreed to rest." She tells him, eyes warning, "She doesn't need to be helping you with whatever it is-"

"What is it?" Arya pipes up, hopping up from the end of the bed, folding her arms over her chest, "I can help."

Sansa watches, slowly rising to sit up in the bed, long fingers prying at the sides of her cloak. She pulls at the strings, draws it tighter.

"That's very kind of you, miss." He smiles down at Arya, "But I'm afraid only your sister can help us with this. You see, there's a man-"

"A man?"

"Aye." Gendry nods, scrunching his nose, "The young Mormont girl found him earlier tonight, just at the edge of the woods."

"Was it not Ramsay?"

Sansa's face drains of all colour then, and she pries the furs from off of her body, forcing them to the bottom of the bed.

"It can't be."

She slips on her boots, pulls her hood up with such an ease, all energy suddenly returned to her body.

Her hearts thumps beneath her chest, her blood flowing as fast as a current.

"Sansa."

She's already in the doorway then, and she can only give her mother one last look before she pushes past Gendry, Arya trailing at her feet.

Catelyn calls out to them from behind, watching as her daughter run after the young man who has sprinted ahead to lead the way.

They don't turn around, Sansa following the man with desperation, Arya at her heels in curiosity.

The younger girl overtakes them, shoving her way through the entrance to the pub when the door is pulled open by two tall men, barkeeps.

She stops at the foot of a table, emptied of punters, cleared of all cups and silverware.

Sansa can only catch her breath when she's finally inside, arms weak at her sides, chest heavy. Her heart won't still, the possibility of her dream being a reality perhaps a little _too_ real, too cruel to be untrue.

If he's alive, then...

"Do you know him?"

Arya asks, thick brows fussing as she stares down at the man on the table. She wipes her finger over his forehead, pushing curled black locks from his face.

He is pale, cheeks rosy, but his chest is blue and yellow, battered and bloodied, and littered with old bruises. They've torn his shirt from his torso, wrapped bandages around his wounds. His brown eyes are closed, but she knows they would be darker if only he opened them. He lies unconscious, in some long sleep she wants so badly to wake him from. His breaths are laboured, raspy, and his face is longer and harder than she has ever seen it, broodier.

He is still unhealed, unhealthy. He is still weak, still unwell.

But, despite all of this - despite his cuts and scrapes and the dried blood that stains his face and neck, despite the puncture wound in his side, soaking the bandage with a thick, clotting layer of fresh blood - he is still here, and he is still alive.

He is breathing, and he survived.

"Jon."


End file.
